Saw a play recently. The story was appropriately troubling and deftly told. But great art is not about literary proficiency or good acting.

Often in any of the artistic ventures, we render our version of a piece, and are judged by some version of accolade.  Our study becomes about acting excellence or mind-blowing special effect or the brilliant manipulation of color and light. And critics judge on those foundations. Even in a new work, we cling to “our version.”

Fans don’t care. Fans are, fittingly, binary. Either the art makes one transform or it doesn’t. When we seek outcomes that make it jarring to return to reality, we do well. If fans only enjoy the elements created to produce the art’s reality, then “our version of art” is to “great art” as “Matchbox Cars” are to “Lamborghinis.”