A mystic is not a special type of human. Every human is a special type of mystic. We are born into mystery. We die into mystery. The mystery seems to be the point of life. The holy curiosity makes us a mystic, and it is what distills that mystery into art.
But trying to depict it in a literal way is like trying to explain a mirror by describing what is reflected on its surface. One must, with closed eyes, feel the surface. Art is how we investigate the reflection, understanding the ordinary as sacred, the sanctity of banality.
It’s ego that separates us from the surface. We seek its refinement. We force it. And in some mad act of alchemy we take pigments and scrub them on a canvas and it transmutes into an image, and if that weren't magical enough, this simulacrum arrives weighted with a slurry of symbolism, archetypes, emotion, and narrative.
It’s hard quarry to hunt, that idea. Yet it floats, from the hands of the maker to the consciousness of the looker, a spark that arcs across humanity. It is the mystery in physical form. It beckons at a collective mind, one in which we are certain we have no clue what this life is about, and if we did we certainly don't have words that come close to calling it. This makes us each a mystic. Looking at pictures. Not knowing why.