To be or not to be, what can be fully understood, life is much more complicate.
To complicated, the example of oil on canvas can never portray. Oil on canvas is the offering of the static and beautiful the overlooked or unappreciated simplicity of composition and environment. I talk of course from the view of a painters wife. Someone who deals with the day to day issues of life, and the structure and support of a family and business. So life is more complexed for me. Caos is some fluid productive state. So to see the painter return from his day on the hillside all contemplative, without time for dishes or the chop wood carry water necessities of life I can be frustrated and his ungrounded reality. But then I touchdown on his world in the form of solid encapsulations of his meditation in oil. Far reaching from my point of hormonal surfing, but I welcome every glimpse, every smudge of paint. So blooming meaningful sometimes it takes me weeks or months to truly understand and see the painting for the first time. Many make me weep for the magic they hold. But the artist makes me weep more for his unattachment to life and family. His resentment of our interuptions and noise in his presence. How valid are we in the way we collide. Am I wrong because I don't conform to his way of existing. Is he wrong because he doesn't respond to my world of existence. Or are we not all just trying to be exactly who we are really meant to be.
Simpler things, ok hardly simply
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