As I descended the stairs onto a New York City subway platform, a strange fluttering caught my eye, something that resembled a bird, or more precisely, a bird preening its feathers. As I drew closer I realized it was a homeless man frantically twisting pieces of newspaper and placing them onto different parts of his body. He was creating a garment to keep warm on a bitterly cold November day. Atop his head, a paper crown bobbed erratically each time he added a strip to his sleeve or bodice. I could not believe how extraordinary it was, a wearable sculpture, something comparable to the work of avant-garde fashion designers such as Comme des Garçons or Martin Margiela. I asked permission to take his photo and gave him some money in exchange. He had trouble keeping still which is why the image is blurry.

Galleries and museums are the places we turn to for art, four walled white box receptacles showing precious objects made by people deemed as experts. However, French philosopher Michel Foucault once said, “...in our society, art is related only to objects and not life or individuals. Experts called 'artists' make art. Why can’t everyone’s life become a work of art?”

I don’t know anything about the man in the photo but I do know that he is a work of art. And while art institutions have their place, I agree with Foucault. Life can be a work of art, even in the most painful bits.