A palimpsest of the past that glimpses the future.
Yesterday’s anxieties overlaid by the heavy brushwork of childhood.
A sand mandala; exquisitely drawn and instantly erased.
The height of narcissism: created for and by an audience of one. An audience of me.
It inspires me. Is inspired by me. Is produced to entertain and move me.
Is the ringing silence in Van Gogh’s ear.
This art sings, dances, writes, paints
Cryptic poetry tapped out on a moon
Bright screen. Monitoring the night.
This art is cinematic perfection that inspires primitive sketches.
Primal paintings on the cave walls of my womb.
This art is the crazed work of my solitude.
Is the art of losing,
And the art of the wish.
It soothes and provokes.
Would be banned if they could see it.
It is the graffiti of my soul. The finger paintings of my id.
The art is the muse. The muse is the art. It amuses me to recall it. Alone with all the others gathered round.
It is critically unacclaimed.
Overdrawn. Underappreciated. Must the symbolism by so heavy handed?
Too subtle. Too obscure.
Why doesn’t the artist just come right out and say it?
Admit it. It’s a snooze.
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