Art (n.) stripped of measure is conjecture and trained senses — the lucky guesses many people call art once practice has made them proficient.
Art (n.) is neither particularly useful (the painting of a bed is no good to sleep on), nor, in the strict sense, true.
Art (n.) that images vice is a meadow of bad grass: grazing there day by day, the young unwittingly accumulate a large evil in their souls.
Art (n.) comes, like reason and law, before roughness and smoothness, heavy and light; if soul is older than matter, nature herself is a secondary product of art and reason.
Art (n.) on a colossal scale says goodbye to truth: the makers of huge statues give them the proportions that seem beautiful from below, not the real ones.
Art (n.) is all about mimesis, imitation of reality (which itself is an imitation of the transcendent realm) and thus it is but a copy, and its value is thus, that of a dubious imitation of an imitations.