The Artist has made the sky with obvious brush strokes this morning. The clouds are but white rows concatenated together making hard lines. What at first seems as a whisp, something playful and light, yield under a patient gaze the sobering purpose: to see the Artist in the work. If there is art and an Artist then what are we? And by reminding the audience they are an audience, one that turns transfixed at the daily spectacle of free art, they are imparted a gift of a moment of self-awareness.
Sometimes self-awareness tells us we are slowly drowning in our bile or foregoing nutrition for empty sweetness. We don't like to see this first and foremost because it means we have failed and now can't deny it. A sick feeling that swirls vortex-like in that soft area bordered between our sex and our heart arises as an iceberg is spotted floating in our veins. It is white and blue and made of pure shame. The shame from the equivalent of using your families savings to gamble and losing; shame to you for losing, shame to them for being demoted in priority. White and blue, the depths distort the iceberg to a flat blob, smudge-like.
White and blue and smudge-like was the sky when the cards were revealed. A deceptively warm sun despite the non-descriptive white travelers. A sky which seemed to imply the details were for us to scratch out. But the clue was there, the weather was unseasonally hospitable, but the clouds would illustrate otherwise.