The wrapped canvas was a blank slate.
Paint splatters, precise brushstrokes, vigorous dotting.
So many ways to shape and experience painting.
So many ways to create.
No one way is the “right” way,
An art piece is free to come to be, gaining charm with age
Or perhaps becoming conscious of being an outlier.
But it is there with purpose, it is deserving of its space in the world.
Some may admire them, and others reject them,
Neither one shapes their worth.
They are not any more or any less deserving of their existence.
Comments (0)
See all