I loved this essay. I completely agree with the authors sentiments in the joy of the creative process involved in painting or drawing. I have never considered myself an artist since I lack that primal compulsive desire to draw that I deem necessary for anyone pursuing it as a way of life, but when I do come upon moments of inspiration, that is when I can actually make a picture. An image worth being proud of and taking joy in. The author said at the beginning, “everything that can possibly be painted has been painted, every brush-stroke that can possibly be laid on canvas had been laid on. The visual arts are at a dead end. Then suddenly, at the age of forty, I begin painting myself and am fascinated”. This is an amazingly beautiful statement. Humanity has many gifts but our creative functions, perpetually fascinating with the unexplored and individual nature of them, are the most impressive. We can overcome ourselves with awe at the way something inside can flow into context, built through conception, creative construction and completion.
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