Climbing is not something that I would consider a sport. Nor exercise. Maybe a hobby. I've often thought about how it's evolved (from the limited picture of its origins that's been painted for me). It's become some strange phenomena in its own right. A sort of yoga on the rocks, body-building, meditation, adventure, or what have you. I've even thought of the possibility of it being considered an art form. Why? Because walking up to a crag and seeing the features on the rock face which inspires such a shock that the only response is to bolt and climb said crag is the same affect that artists strive for, is it not? Sans, the bolting and climbing of their art work (though I still remember skateboarders using the modern art outside the Everson Museum, in Syracuse, NY as ramps). Climbing is art without an artists.
The closest thing there is to an artists is the human eye who beholds the line and climbs it. That's it. And because "art" is nearly indefinable, the fluidity of he word allows me to make such a strange claim.
Exercise = art?
No, wait, climbing isn't exercise. At least not for me.
And it's even more strange that when someone gets shot down by a certain move on a line that they will recreate the same move in a climbing gym. Mechanical reproduction. The attempt to mimic nature in hopes of conquering her.
Or is it more co-existing, flowing with, discovering nature?
I'm not an avid fan of climbing gyms unless that is the most available form of climbing in one's area. Climbing in the gym takes away the best part of climbing - the outdoors. You could go outside and smell the fresh pines or go to the gym and smell the fresh pine-sol covering up the stale scent of dirty socks.
Though I loved the time I spent climbing in the gym when I was at school, it just doesn't compare to being outside all the time and climbing. Though I got less injuries indoors, outside is where it's at. Not where beautiful lines are being deconstructed by their holds and transmitted onto plywood and plastic.
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