I am life. I am colour, discord, friction, imperfection, inspiration, confusion. I am all these things because that is how I was made – in a room where life was present. There was paint spilled on the floor, mistakes written on the curtains. Where I was born, you could smell something different, something new. They ate cheese and ham sandwiches while they decided what to do next. They took a nap under the desk because they had misplaced a stroke and it was all too hard to think about just then. They had sex in the next room, so I could hear their movement through the wall. It was a place full of life, and they filled me with that life. I became imperfect, of course, but what life isn’t?

Now, I sit in a room with pure white walls and neat spotlights. I am surrounded by frames, canvases, photographs,  detail, monochrome, and polished wooden floorboards where people stand and think technically.

“Was that sticky tape supposed to be there?”

“That looks like a wheel”

“What an interesting technique!”

“I don’t much care for it, myself.”

It is a place where everything echoes.

            Sometimes I miss the sponges, ironically used to create a portrait of Mess. I miss watching them methodically paint a white coat over something so they could start again, or sometimes just because they liked the colour white. I miss the measured carelessness of a single stroke. But I am finished now, and I like my job. In this place of illusion and metaphor, of finely polished perfection, I am here to bring life. From where I sit, I see a door. It is not the door by which people usually enter, but I like it better that way. I prefer people to see me when they have already looked over symmetry and bland lines of meaning. I like to encourage people to just be, and to enjoy being life.

[Image 'Art Gallery' by garyturner on Flickr]
Courtesy of Creative commons