It's all a painting, sepia, faded, slight wear along the worn-away frame. No one knows the artist, though hushed rumors say he's long gone. Singature's hidden in the lines of the face, but not in any language we can read.
Why this angle? Why this symbol? Why are we even here, staring at this damn painting for the third year in a row, when little insight has been gained? Did the artist know his message would be obscured?
But there is no message. The artist was a madman, barely in control of his own impulses. Half these cuts on the canvas were his.
No meaning but the one we assign . . . but what are we to make of this, then, when we want to just turn away and find some art that makes sense?
Running along ridges of scar tissue, little gobs of wax trickle down cheeks, life flickering in the breeze.
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