Cracked tempera on canvas, smears of oil on wood.
Masters at work, put to work by their masters.
Centuries of pain and love stare back at me.
How does one paint the human experience?
Is it in the eyes?
So full of emotion, you feel as if they see right through you.
Is it in a still life that's anything but still?
Light bouncing off of metals, dancing on linen and pearls.
Is it in the scene itself?
Myth, grief, portrait, the resurrection of Christ.
Thin brush, single black stroke.
The mark of the hand that brought the scene to life.
It's in the reminder that art is being human.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 5:41 AM UTC
One day you wake up and you're running out of time.
Or maybe it's just as you're about to go to bed.
Or maybe it's a constant vision.
You see the spool of thread rolling away from you.
The more you chase it, the more it uncoils.
But if you stop running, it will get too far, too out of reach.
You look at the strangers to your side, the friends and enemies in the front.
Their thread looks shinier and thicker and more tightly wrapped around the reel.
You don't look behind you.
You've heard whispers of the people in the back.
Some say they look old but feel young.
That their spools rolled so far ahead, they circled right back to them.
And now, they comfortably set their barren spools upright and rest upon them.
Stationary, timeless, immortal.
But you can't risk running out of thread.
So you keep running.
Running out of time.
Mar 20
Mar 20, 2026 at 7:27 AM UTC