The hand us a bucket of paint. It can be any colour. I choose blue, because that's my favourite colour.
They hand us a white piece of canvas. We are to paint the first things that comes to our heads. I make a fence. It's pretty fence, really; with even spokes and neat outlines. When they ask me why I painted a fence, I have nothing special to say. "It was the first thing I thought of." I tell them. The others laugh at me, they've all painted seemingly profound things - a green heart with jagged lines and a black horse.
I look at my blue fence and try to come up with an explanation. I can't.
The canvas is still lying somewhere in my desk.
An art project at age 8, where we were being subtly psychoanalyzed.
They hand us a white piece of canvas. We are to paint the first things that comes to our heads. I make a fence. It's pretty fence, really; with even spokes and neat outlines. When they ask me why I painted a fence, I have nothing special to say. "It was the first thing I thought of." I tell them. The others laugh at me, they've all painted seemingly profound things - a green heart with jagged lines and a black horse.
I look at my blue fence and try to come up with an explanation. I can't.
The canvas is still lying somewhere in my desk.
An art project at age 8, where we were being subtly psychoanalyzed.
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