It seems to me that artists exist in some kind of existential purgatory.
Anyone who considers themselves any kind of artist is constantly using art to make sense of the past and the present. To explain and elucidate, to bring some sense of order the universe — to make stars into constellations.
At the same time, however, our forever temporal art is itself shaping the future of culture as it bombards society, bouncing endlessly through the insides of minds and countless other imaginations.
Art is paradoxical by nature. It both reflects the past and creates the future. It both orders and dis-integrates, and somehow, through the course of both, defies entropy.
Maybe that’s what humans do, too: reflect and create.
Maybe that’s why we need art so badly.