![]() Unless his heart is a metaphor for his heart, as everything is a metaphor for itself, so that looking at the paint is like looking at a bird that isn’t there, with a song in its throat that you don’t want to hear but you paint anyway. But it isn’t a bird, it’s a man in a bird suit, blue shoulders instead of feathers, because he isn’t looking at a bird, real bird, as he paints, he is looking at his heart, which is impossible. Who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation? Who controls the lines of inquiry? We do. Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all? Not how, because hows are easy-series or sequence, one foot after the other-but existentially why bother, what does it solve?Īnd just because you want to paint a bird, do actually paint a bird, it doesn’t mean you’ve accomplished anything. The problem, if there was one, was simply a problem with the question. This went on for a long time.Ī man saw a bird and wanted to paint it. Sometimes the man felt like the bird and sometimes the man felt like a stone-solid, inevitable-but mostly he felt like a bird, or that there was a bird inside him, or that something inside him was like a bird fluttering. ![]() The bird had a song inside him, and feathers. A man saw a bird and found him beautiful. ![]()
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