Apr 2016
THE ARTIST WITH THE EMPTY CANVAS
i could never paint, he says, i would just have an empty canvas over and over again.
there was no vibrant color, there was no creativity. my canvas was empty.
my paintbrush was nothing but a brush with a ironic name. my canvas was empty.
all the paint stored up in the attic was all dried up. my cavas was empty.
then i saw a color.
the most glistening red i've ever seen. i didn't know my body was paint. i didn't know that my finger could be a brush too.
and on that night, my canvas wasn't empty. no, after that night, it was never empty.
i could never paint, he says, i would just have an empty canvas over and over again.
there was no vibrant color, there was no creativity. my canvas was empty.
my paintbrush was nothing but a brush with a ironic name. my canvas was empty.
all the paint stored up in the attic was all dried up. my cavas was empty.
then i saw a color.
the most glistening red i've ever seen. i didn't know my body was paint. i didn't know that my finger could be a brush too.
and on that night, my canvas wasn't empty. no, after that night, it was never empty.
