The artist never seems to age

As someone who was privileged enough to write about the art scene for the first six years of his now all-but-defunct journalistic career, I have developed an immense respect and appreciation for not only the art, but the artists behind it all, the creative process in living breathing color as it were.

Artists never seem to age, if you discount wrinkled skin and white hair that is; their spirits are ever young, ever sprouting new sprigs of green, new ideas, new ways of looking at mundane objects. For them, life is an eternal wellspring not a finite four-walled waiting room for eternity. For them it is not a decaying world, not a depressing place, even while they capture decay and the sad inevitability of the decline and death of all things they capture its movement, its metamorphoses from one state into another.


To an artist there is nothing uninteresting about the process of life and he/she continues to marvel wide eyed at all that surrounds us all the time, as such they feel emotions more intensely, they express them more passionately, they devour life without pause and as such they show us things we might have missed along the way as we climb the ladder of single minded achievement set before us even before our birth. We rarely think too deeply about things, we rarely feel passionately about things we consider too ordinary to feel anything about, and as such we lose that artistic spirit that is in us all from birth.

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