It seems to me, fairly clearly
That an artist talking about their work
Is far more interesting
Than having a scholar tell another’s story
Being told that the painter
Is bleak and melancholic
Is nothing like as immersive
As the painter revealing the pathway to his own soul
It isn’t so much the inspiration
But rather the inner mind
Which strengthens the exposure
This I must remember
Also that hope should always be apparent
That the smiles of love ought to permeate
Into the very fabric
Of the film, the photograph, and the word
