"They used linseed in oil paint, back when it couldn't be grabbed off the shelf in a mass produced tube. I wonder some days if it wasn’t better that way. Not because it was less available, that part sucked, but because it took so much skill and deliberation to craft."
Linseed glared at the musings someone had scribbled in their art textbook. It was bought second hand, and usually they loved the notes of others. So many different ways to look at the world! At art. At life. This time was different.
Art to Linseed…It was everything. They were not always skilled according to some, yet give Linseed a paintbrush and the world shifted. Linseed wasn’t thinking about paint making. They were not thinking concrete thoughts at all. They were pastel drifts that flowed through the brush in contrary bold colors. It was the feeling that flew Linseed up up up! It was their truth.
Linseed looked at the note scrawled in the book again, sitting so damningly on the page before adding a note of their own.
Some wonder if art was better in the past. They wonder if something critical has been lost along the way. Some don't wonder if art still lives. They create. They know.