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  • Gamache
    Gamachealmost 3 years ago

    the colours and shapes are wonderful, and the physical contours of paint add mystery: what might she be seeing? other day I passed a flax-haired young woman, maybe a dozen summers old; she stood firm on the sidewalk, twirling the wooden ends of a jumprope like some serpentine nunchuck, exercising her wrists while gazing toward imagination’s horizon. she’s too old, maybe, to prance with forearms raised, pretending the pony denied by lack of circumstance (this was, after all, the middle of a city). why is it called “growing up” when it’s really expanding in all directions? knocking on each inner door, exploring the vast realm of possibilities, dreaming, realizing. apologies, I get carried away sometimes; but then, your works affect me that way.

  • Growing up, it seems sometimes, is slowly removing the sight from inward to outward. As we grow old we stop seeing for ourselves through ourselves, innocent in our interpretations. (Much like the child of the emperor’s new clothes, he saw no clothes so he said it) Our view is slowly drowned in the views of those around us, supposedly more worldly and wise from time.
    I’ll never be old enough for experience, and then again I say this with a small smile on my face. I may never experience what my mother or grandfather or aunt experienced but I’ll always have my own experiences to display and amaze. I’ve done things they’ve never done and may never do and i’m only 19. What wonders will I see that they’ll never see, what will my children witness that I will never know. I’m excited.

    – Chroma Amor

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