Her art is a friend of convenience.
It absorbs her.
It turns her delicate into raw and beautiful scenes of naked flesh on linen.
It turns her hard into lashings of angry black with no recognisable form.
The artist removes the brush from her mouth and strokes, one final touch of pink and she’ll be satisfied.
But she won’t. She’ll never be satisfied.
Because she is an artist.
And an artist, she knows, is always a work in progress.
An artist—a passionate, heart dwelling artist—will always be full of too much life, and never full of enough.
This is what living has taught her.
This is her reason for art.
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