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Artist’s Eye

Funny how something immobile jerks our minds into mobility.
Questionable how an image holds so much interpretations.
Fearful how lines, words and shapes offer so much to decipher.
Different strokes, one meaning.

Black. Blue. Brown. Green.
Like Hades’ horse.
Like the sky.
Like a dusty old man’s shoe.
Like the field.

Beautiful. Ugly. Fair. Little.
Like dawn.
Like Medusa.
Like Rebecca.
Like Ms. Muffet.

Fat. Thin. Tall. Short.
Like the butcher.
Like the tinman.
Like trees.
Like Rumpelstiltskin.

It’s all in the artist’s eye.

Colours and shapes. Heights and size. Beauty and shame.

It’s all in there.
So when he picks the paint, dips the brush, and starts sketching, don’t ask, don’t fight.
Because whatever line he draws, colour he applies, size and shape he employs, they look good.
And it’s all in his eye.

Why don’t you be like him and paint your world today?

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Born at a very young age.
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