I write so infrequently now. I'd like to change that.
The canvas was blank. There was really only the one way to see it. Blank. Empty. Nothing there. That's what I was looking at when I stared at the white sheet in front of me. But it wasn't what was really there. No, what was there was much more interesting. A reflection of everything coming into it, but not just a reflection. No, what I was seeing was diffused, mixed together, all compiled so tightly into each speck of that canvas that it shone back as a mixture of everything, every color the eye could see. The beauty, the pain, even the darkness was there underneath the surface, just waiting to have its say. An entire whirlwind of feelings and colors, highlights and shades, all just bursting forth in such fullness the eye couldn't even begin to take it all in. It was then that I became aware of my job as an artist. I was there not to create beauty and emotion, but to choose what marvels to reveal to the viewing eye, and just simply cover up the rest.
