pieces with feeling. pieces with paint and toil and metaphor and
mine, an empty canvas. some stand before it and scoff. a child
could have done this, they say, anyone could have done this. I
agree. it is nothing. some stand before it as if they understand. as
if the critics are correct and the space means purity, or freedom, or
hope. but what if the artist just had nothing else to say? what if the artist
stood before it for months and wept?