ART, LIKE LIFE, HAPPENS BY ACCIDENT

A whiff of control; some semblance of steering. And belief of a firm grip. But we're grasping at the air beneath our feet. The truth is: we don't hold anything. It comes in bits and bobs, dashes and jots - brief glimpses, spaces, sliding out of sight.

For truth, is to feel it slip away.

And then to try to create it.


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