Not being sure is looking for, and then finding, my self-inflicted truth. Truth, it seems, is based more upon my personal feelings of past success than upon the norms the world has given me. I face the blank sheets of paper and canvas with the past as a measuring device. Then, I simply move; I and the present become one. Thus it is that art appears. Well, here it is, in its nascence, it appears by me, the judge, hanging on every stroke of brush and pencil. Success is measured in their lasting power. Does it make sense in a time scale bigger than the here and now? Will it make sense in the now of tomorrow as well?
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