Me an' art.

As an artist I was almost comically obsessed with meaning, as if the churning cosmos gave a whit about the lines and scratches I made on paper. Yet it is admirable and wonderful to be temporarily transported by art, a bulwark against the terrible onslaught of time. Just let's not get the idear of transcendence. Lines fade, paper decays, electricity fails. My great folly was thinking I was somehow separate or above nature.