Where Art Lives

When I view a piece of art, I am really looking at a mental recreation of what's in front of me within my own mind. This is not so hard to understand. I cannot see anything outside the capacity to imagine of my mind. It has even been argued (by me, no less) that nothing exists for me outside of my mind's creation of it, for me. If I cannot think of a thing, the thing does not exist.

So does art exist outside of my own mind? For others, perhaps, but not for me. Do I flavor and bias a piece of art recreated in my mind when I look at it? Of course. I'm not sure we could avoid doing this if we wanted to. When I reflect and criticise, and expound upon a piece of art, am I not really commenting upon the piece I've recreated in my own head, ergo, I'm really criticising my own recreation of an artist's work? Why yes, yes I am.

Does it reason that the larger, and more sensitive, and more profound, and more subtle, and more delicate, and more intutiive, etc. that I can make my mind, the greater and larger and more sensitive, etc. will be the piece of art that I am confronted with?

The bigger the head, the bigger the Art.