I see each day as an empty canvas. The sheer whiteness of the stretched linen exhilarates me beyond words. My journey over the last half century has been a quest to find my genuine self. Only recently I have sought out emptiness in its own right. Emptiness does not equal the void. Emptiness = “No-Thing”. Deep space. A drop of clear seawater. For the painter the white canvas emerges from the snowfield like a prism of possibility. I raise my brush dipped in the spectrum. Clear the mist from the morning window. Days of life. One day at a time. I open my eyes. Who painted the Sky?
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