Blue
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
It was made up of rippings of constrcution paper, yellows, greens, blues. It wasn't really finished yet, the image not of one of any existing thing. The Artist still hadn't perfected his collage.
I watched him walk away. Seems he had run out of paste. You know the collage type of paste, disciplined and committed. Being the master artist he is, you wouldn't think he would let something as foolish as this happen, but as far as I knew he was just that, foolish.
As he left, the Artist's collage suffered a great loss; all the Yellow bits forming a circular pattern began to peel. I imagine that part to have been a dipiction of the sun or something of the like. The happy parts, you know.
Soon enough, the yellow bits had fallen off completely, and fallen to the floor. The Artist was no where to be seen. And as you would bet, soon enough thereafter, some more peices started to hang off, to peer over the edge, to see where the yellow bits had gone.
Red, Black, White, Orange, Green, they all peered past their own understandings, beyond the paste by which they had been joined together, to inquire, curiously, mischeviously the fate of their beloved friend. Is there life after the collage, after the paste? Is it better than the collage as it is? They all wanted to know.
I called out for the artist, but my poor blue voice couldn't carry very far. I tried to warn him, for him to return, to re-apply the paste, but to no avail. The other colours began denying their purpose, their reason for being pasted. They started pushing themselves off. Slowly, piece by piece, the collage fell apart. All the little flakes of construction paper floated softly from their Artist's easel to the cold floor, where they served to satisfy their own interests.
I stayed well still; maybe the paste had failed? Maybe I was wrong, that they hadn't pushed off, but that the paste wasn't good enough. Yea, that's it. I had to stay very well still, if I moved around too much, the disciplined and commited paste might fail. I might fall off and displease the Artist too.
It's too bad though, because a sticky white sheet of paper dotted with Blue shards is no picture at all; alone, the purpose of the picture is not served. Perhaps even though I have chosen not to betray the paste holding me where I am placed may cause me to be thrown out, disregarded, simply because of the others' choices.
Only time will tell, once the Artist returns, ofcourse.
I watched him walk away. Seems he had run out of paste. You know the collage type of paste, disciplined and committed. Being the master artist he is, you wouldn't think he would let something as foolish as this happen, but as far as I knew he was just that, foolish.
As he left, the Artist's collage suffered a great loss; all the Yellow bits forming a circular pattern began to peel. I imagine that part to have been a dipiction of the sun or something of the like. The happy parts, you know.
Soon enough, the yellow bits had fallen off completely, and fallen to the floor. The Artist was no where to be seen. And as you would bet, soon enough thereafter, some more peices started to hang off, to peer over the edge, to see where the yellow bits had gone.
Red, Black, White, Orange, Green, they all peered past their own understandings, beyond the paste by which they had been joined together, to inquire, curiously, mischeviously the fate of their beloved friend. Is there life after the collage, after the paste? Is it better than the collage as it is? They all wanted to know.
I called out for the artist, but my poor blue voice couldn't carry very far. I tried to warn him, for him to return, to re-apply the paste, but to no avail. The other colours began denying their purpose, their reason for being pasted. They started pushing themselves off. Slowly, piece by piece, the collage fell apart. All the little flakes of construction paper floated softly from their Artist's easel to the cold floor, where they served to satisfy their own interests.
I stayed well still; maybe the paste had failed? Maybe I was wrong, that they hadn't pushed off, but that the paste wasn't good enough. Yea, that's it. I had to stay very well still, if I moved around too much, the disciplined and commited paste might fail. I might fall off and displease the Artist too.
It's too bad though, because a sticky white sheet of paper dotted with Blue shards is no picture at all; alone, the purpose of the picture is not served. Perhaps even though I have chosen not to betray the paste holding me where I am placed may cause me to be thrown out, disregarded, simply because of the others' choices.
Only time will tell, once the Artist returns, ofcourse.