Art is no more common than Salt is in the Seas surrounding human civilization. The artist today creates art to the fear of being unwanted; whereas the artist previous would devoid all community aspirations in the pursuit of solitude. The artist previous would create, contour, and endure the inner workings of their mind. Twisting one’s own reality to mold the perception of those willing to look deeper beneath the cracks of the modern’s sandlike surface. The quicksand that reveals a lonely heart and a pit of misfortune to one’s own world, and not the world of the ones involved in the modern artists’. The previous artist would conjure monolithic entities in what would cause mankind to think on it’s head as to how it was made. Days turn into Months, Months to Years in finishing a single portrait. Sent to nil to the modern artisans’ five second quick fix.

Modern artist are numb to the machines that create the false realities to their art. No more is art vivid, rather a cog in the veil waiting to unfold. The veil showing the true artists. Behind door number one holds the ultimate artist.

The machine.


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