What Is Art?
By : J. David Chapman/December 26, 2025
Julie’s question came somewhere between Edmond and the lake house, the kind of question that sounds casual until it isn’t.
“What’s your definition of art?”
It came on the heels of a sentence I hadn’t expected to defend: the bobcat is art. Not a metaphor. Not a joke. The actual bobcat I had just dropped off at the taxidermist after a local hunt.
At first, I reached for Google, like we all do when trying to anchor a big idea. Google’s definition is tidy and safe: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form… appreciated for beauty or emotional power. It’s not wrong. It’s just incomplete.
Because the bobcat didn’t fit neatly into that box. And neither did the motorcycle hanging in our home. Or the boats suspended in our lake house. Or the antique ship figureheads and paddles lining the walls. None of those were created to hang in a gallery. And yet, every one of them does something to the people who encounter them.
So, I gave Julie the answer that felt truer in the moment: art is in the eye of the beholder. Not as a cop-out, but as a principle. Art is anything that evokes emotion. Anything that adds to the quality of life. Anything that brings joy, reflection, memory, or even discomfort. Art doesn’t have to be pretty; it has to be felt.
That idea isn’t new, even if it sounds modern. In 1917, Marcel Duchamp famously submitted a porcelain urinal to an art exhibition and called it Fountain. He didn’t sculpt it. He didn’t paint it. He simply reframed it. His point was radical at the time: art is defined not just by the object, but by intention and perception. Once something is placed in a context that invites reflection, it becomes art.
Taxidermy, interestingly, has long occupied that in-between space. In the Victorian era, it was common in both museums and private homes, not merely as trophies, but as storytelling devices. They represented adventure, survival, respect for nature, and mastery of a craft. A skilled taxidermist isn’t preserving an animal; they are composing posture, balance, and expression. The difference between something unsettling and something beautiful often comes down to artistry.
The same is true of the built environment, which I’ve come to see as one of the most overlooked forms of art. Our homes, our downtown, our streets and public spaces are three-dimensional canvases we move through every day. Architecture isn’t just shelter; it’s sculpture you inhabit. When done well, it shapes mood, behavior, and memory. When done poorly, it drains life from a place.
That’s why I say our home is art. Not because it belongs in a magazine, but because it reflects who we are. The motorcycle on the wall isn’t transportation, it’s motion frozen in time. The boats hanging in the lake house aren’t vessels, they’re symbols of freedom, family, and long summer days that slip by too fast. The ship figureheads and paddles aren’t décor, they’re history, craftsmanship, and reminders that people once poured immense care into objects meant to face wind, water, and risk. None of those items were created to be art. And yet they are.
Which brings me back to the bobcat. It represents a moment, a place, a story, and a respect for the experience that led to it. It sparks conversation. It elicits emotion. Some people will admire it. Some will question it. Some will feel uncomfortable. But no one will ignore it.
And maybe that’s the simplest definition of art after all. Art is anything that makes you feel something and makes life just a little richer because it exists.
Julie didn’t argue with that. She just smiled, looked back out at the road, and let the question linger the rest of the way to the lake. And maybe that, too, is part of what makes something art, not the answer, but the fact that you keep thinking about it long after the moment has passed.
Dr. J. David Chapman is the Chair of Finance and Professor of Real Estate at The University of Central Oklahoma (jchapman7@uco.edu)