I feel like my art supplies came into the wrong hands.
I love my hands. I’m not so sure about my art.
But I love the tools more. They give words to my hands. Language to their souls.
But to learn expression is to work the tools. In a way, to work the art.
I purchased the tools. They were expensive- expensive of my time. Maybe not as expensive anymore- I can pop out an illustration in minutes.
Yet to be excellent is to be mediocre. Perfection is what I want. I merely… excel. It’s a point in a range- never the extreme.
What if… they weren’t mine?
…
It’s a world unknown. A world unexpressed in the mind of another. I rid the innovation of this significant other, remove them of their escape to another world through another medium. Only my reality is to be constructed.
Most of all, the tools in my hands are not free. They lack freedom. My work is judged. Biased. Standardized. It always hits a certain standard that makes it mediocre- real art accepts its flaws.
He, she, or they. Their art- It’s an expression in its truest form that can never see the light.
All because I purchased this set of tools, a set meant to belong to another.