There was a boy who lived and died in the Amazon or the Outback or in a place way, way before the Internet and airplanes and before colonies colonized his world. He received great joy and was never bored from painting masks in the same way every day. They weren’t for portfolio or gallery or critique or blog. He didn’t sign them.
There is a four year old boy who drew his brother taller than a house – at least four times taller, and he isn’t worried about proportions or permanence or posterity or if anyone thinks its any good. He is worried about what is for dessert. His mother doesn’t understand his crayon drawing and thinks its crude but she puts it on the fridge because she loves her son.
I am sitting in a nice studio offered to me thinking about post-modernism and art historical context and why I choose the forms I choose, and it feels silly that I need to be thinking so hard.
A group of Kindergartners have escaped and are running through the forest spinning their stained shirts over their heads, yelling made-up nonsense words like The Lost Boys. Some of them are quieter. They’re just sitting down, making things and I’d really, really like to see all the things they’ve made. I would ask their advice on art and life and would be guaranteed to gain great knowledge.