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艺术这个东西向来难以界定。在以往的印象里,它似乎应该是纯粹化的东西,没有世俗的干扰,没有浮华的侵袭。艺术又是孤独的,它往往盛开在受人冷落的角落,非要经历残酷的历练,甚至是世人的嘲弄才会在悲凉中涅磐而生。
Art has always been difficult to define this thing. In the past, it seems that it should be a pure thing, without worldly interference and without flashy attacks. Art is lonely, it often bloom in the cold-hearted corner, to experience the brutal experience, and even the world’s mockery will be Nirvana in desolation.