a painter i knew once was markedly restless.
an uneasiness lay within her brush strokes, one
hastily lapped over another. the colors could not
move freely; her painting was stiff and dull.
but critics are a pair of outside eyes; one must
stand away to watch. judgement served
by the remotest man is distorted by strain,
scornful and longing. i am one viewing from afar,
and i am no painter.
No comments:
Post a Comment