Beholding Salad

My error; the rash of colors, the shades and tints of madness on the palette… are never bearable while on the brush. If not for the orchestration on my part, to imagine a new image onto a canvas that is not even “real”, the scene; would remain a razor tearing into the eyes. No good memory, or flicker of self expression is a remedy for the events that change us. The only peace is in the fact that everything is locked into place, until it is changed; blacked out with black paint, or another color. But what if the artist believes the portrait to be finished? Is he entitled to give it a name, and describe its context, its medium. I’m sure, if it were not for my mistake, that I would be so obliged. Instead, the sunlight fades on a figure, shrouded by a red curtain, a horrible rectangular shape, with softened edges.