The poem in colour.
Flowing forth with life’s inner vigour, raw and unchanged, the painting, like all works of culture, suffers disparity between the objective and the subjective. What did the artist see when she stepped back to examine her creation? What thoughts besieged her as she consumed the still fresh colours and experimental textures? Did she believe that the true manifestation of creativity is only attainable through the sacrifice of form, or was she concerned with transforming crude inspiration into recognizable culture?
Once over - palette and composition. Twice - the perpetual struggle between life and fundamental restlessness. Thrice - objectivity half-removed, raw emotions breaking through thin canvas like flashing beacons on the stormy sea. The observer smells dusty golden roads in black and white; in drops of bright red we see life, calming blue death, vibrant green ennui. False memories, these speckles are. How formulaic. Quelle drôle.