What is the difference between good and bad art?

In order to answer this, we must think about what art is itself. Art is a form of self expression and communicating ideas, various concepts, and creativity through a wide range of topics: writing, art in general (drawings, sculptures, paintings, etc), fashion, theatre production, etc. This is the broadest range of art specifically. In order to fully analyze the difference between good art and bad art, I like to take it from this broad perspective due to the mere fact that art is in almost everything we experience, view, and see. Art is a worldwide phenomenon, an extremely vital component to almost everything we do. To elaborate on how art is a part of our lives, I will discuss how exactly. For example, music is like poetry and very lyrical. Why is this art? It’s a creative music piece done by someone originally. It inspires, it creates feeling and emotion. Writing songs is self expression and putting one’s perception of thing or feelings on paper, and then further produced for the world to become aware of. In terms of art itself (paintings, drawings, designs, etc), we can visualize an artist’s point of view or how they express themselves creatively. My point to this is that art completes almost everything we do in life. As humans, we need to portray our creative side to everything. Art can be in the simplest forms such as creating a design for something, a simple logo or name, or even a business idea. Now that I’ve established how art is relevant to our everyday lives, the difference between good art and bad art will be analyzed.

There is no particular difference between good and bad art. Everyone has different opinions and perceptions on everything. Of course, some of us may think similar responses or ideas, but everyone sees things in their own way. For example, let’s say four people are at the scene of the crime and they witness the exact same event. Yes, they would see the exact same things. Would their perception of it be the same? Not necessarily. They would each report it differently on the same situation. This occurs with art in the same manner. We each think differently. We consider what is good and bad differently. What may be an exciting piece of art may be dull and depressive to someone else. If an artist is trying to communicate with a person a certain idea, but we end up seeing different aspects of it. Both good and bad art are almost the same in terms of perception. Both good art and bad art invokes that emotional response, a comment, a feeling of anger or relating to it. This response shows that it has touched you in some way, whether good or bad. Even though somebody might dislike a piece, another person might enjoy it. We cannot eliminate what we think is bad art. One’s man’s art can be another’s man treasure. We can choose to look at the two sides of things and be satisfied with it. Overall, everyone’s ideas are different, as well as perceptions. We cannot clearly define the main difference between good art and bad art due to the mere fact that we all see things differently.

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I can feel the cuff links squeezing tighter on my wrists.
I slowly walk behind the men in uniform with my head hung low
Society has eyes that glare daggers and hatred at me
The family’s pain for their dead daughter will never be restored
A chorus of cheers erupts behind a cold steel fence
These are cheers of justice and burning anger inside.
As I walk, I feel the first glimpse of shame at myself
A cold blooded murderer
My body starts to itch with remorse
And the guilt washes over me

I am being shoved into a tiny and dark jail cell
Stumbling unto the ground
The darkness imprisons and engulfs me without a sound
I have nothing but the cold cracked walls to lean against
The officer tells me through the dark that I have three days
Until death. My Death.
My heart pounds rapidly, it might rip out of its chest.
My heart has turned against me, it hates me.
The growing fear is torture
The sin that I have committed will lead me to my eternal damnation
I am confined to solitude, struggling with deep thoughts
I am going to die in three days.
Ear piercing screams. Pleading and crying hard for mercy. She held up her hands to shield, and shut her eyes tight.

Blood dripped from the side of her face, racing down. Rivers of red poured down her body, scattering itself across the ground. He looks into the pale and unstill face of his lover. The colour has diminished. Her dark black hair remains tangled over her face.
Her blood cries out to him, for he has committed an act that will haunt him forever.
A sliver gleam of the knife lays into the grass.
He holds unto her as regret wraps around him.

I try to stop reminiscing about her death.
It’s impossible. I can still hear her screaming in my head.
The cold tears never stop flowing.
I just killed my soul mate, my life.
I am forever wanting to dig my own grave.
I’m going to die. My thoughts are strangling me,
I am slowly creating bruises of my sins.
I move my way around the cell. Pacing back and forth, feeling my way around six feet of space.
A cold shard of mirror I feel with my fingertips.
I slowly dig into my skin, dragging the sharpness of the mirror across.
It stings, but I deserve it.
The next day, it repeats.
My heart aches for freedom. I grab my head and shake back and forth.
I stretch out my arms and cry as loud as I can.
My head throbs, my mind is fucked up.
This isn’t happening now. I miss her.
Time is running out. I just want to be free.
My sin is piercing through my heart. My mind is etched with endless grief and thoughts that torture me.


A creak of light appears. I am being led up the narrow stairs.
The light of my day has vanished. This is it.
As I begin to fill into the room with my presence,
I can see the pained faces of the parents and brother of my wife.
I cannot even begin to describe the waver of pain that rushed over me.
“I’m sorry I caused you this pain. It’s my pain too. I deserve this,” I whisper.
Shaking as I stand on the stool, I panic and cry. I am now realizing that this is really it.
Through thick tears, I can see their faces.
After I die, there will be justice.
I’m insane with crying.
They are beginning to lower the rope; inches away from my throat
Choking with fear, I close my eyes.
I slowly raise my hand to my heart.
“Lord, forgive me.” My pale lips manage to utter.
I close my eyes. The rope reaches me, and then there is nothing more.

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This is my fourth piece written for this class. We had to focus on a object that would be essential to our story.


I glare at the television as flickers of colour flash across the screen.
The deep but cheery voice of the weatherman
Telling me that a full moon is expected tonight
I grab unto the armrest of the couch
Unable to contain my fear
My pulse races, my breath quickens
I sweat, for I am frightened.
When the pale blue moon arrives
I make the transformation into a were wolf.
What’s a boy supposed to do? Alone in my solitude,
My mind races as I contemplate turning into an animal for the third time this month.
This isn’t happening now.
I have heard of the legends from my ancestors many times before.
My life has changed for the worse. Do I want to become this creature? A werewolf hunts, they think by instinct. They kill people. I don’t want to be an animal, this murderer.
When I transform, my teeth shatter immensely. My body bursts like flames, as it takes on this new body.
Fur grows, my eyes roll to the back of my head as my icy blue eyes take on a new form.
The pain is too much to bear. My human mind slowly dissolves.
I wish this wasn’t happening now.
I stare at the green clock ahead, the gold outline of the time.
I now sit still and rigid as a statue.
Insanity and fear has washed over me.
I look out the window into the evening sky.
Once the darkness expands across the sky like a blanket
And the moon comes out at 12, my time will begin.
I sit down once more, the clock ticks ever so slowly.
I am about to face the inevitable of my life, I might as well wait
for it. The blood rushes from my face as the clock chimes at the final hour. My heart aches at the thought of becoming an animal once more and going through the painful process. I always feel my muscles growing and expanding ferociously. The pain is too much to bear.
I get up and run. I feel the blood and pulse rushing through me. My veins thicken and I am about to scream in pain. I open the door and run into the vast interior of the dark forest.
As I shake in uncontrollable pain, my body takes on a new life of its own.

A werewolf with sleek grey fur stands firmly on all fours. His deep blue eyes glow in the dark. He looks up into the lit sky provided by the moon. Against the backdrop of the blackened sky, the moon is welcomed into the sky. The surge of silver lightens up the sky at its height. The moon has fully awakened the werewolf. He intently stares up at the moon and he lets out a loud howl that echoes beyond the forests for miles. He is thirsty. The werewolf runs rapidly through the darkened forest. The moon has claimed him. Because of this moon, the night has finally begun.

Symbol of Poem/ Object: The moon. Since the moon is the focus of the boy’s transformation, it therefore makes it the object of this story. Basically, I wrote about a boy who fears turning into a werewolf once again. The moon controls his entire transformation.