An artist isn’t an artist, they’re a time bomb, a grenade; just waiting for the clock to strike 12, for the pin to be pulled. They speak in shades of their chosen palette, their words don’t always make sense but they are accounted as beautiful.They need their brushes as much as an addict needs their fix, there they feel safe, at home.
They feel alright when they have their brushes in their hand and words to be said, they feel alright but it doesn’t last forever.
Nothing lasts forever they realise, when they are held up to articulate their feelings, when it doesn’t feel right with their empty hands balled up in fists due to frustration of not being heard in the medium they speak in.
We aren’t meant to wait for them to explode, we aren’t meant to question their work, we’re meant to respect them and be there for when they don’t feel alright.