Why I Write

I write because I can’t paint. If I could paint I would render the world. With careful eyes I’d fill the canvas with color. A stroke of blue here, a dash of it there, decisively creating what it is I feel. You would peer close on a pinwheel of blues and step back to proclaim why, that’s the ocean! with perfect clarity.
But I cannot paint. Instead I slash colors onto the canvas like a trashman disposing the bin. With clumsy skill I spill my materials everywhere. Some goes here, some there, spilling out onto other pools of discarded color. You read the strokes of cascading blues and step back, stroke your chin, and finally say, well, a child could do that.
Nobody can know the intention behind a work besides the artist. So I’ll tell you why I painted it—so that people could feel the water.

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