We artists go to studios to paint --
partly because it can make a dreadful mess --
but also to create without restraint:
when we're alone, there's no one to impress.
So how can I explain this curious fact:
that two of my favorite pieces were painted in public?
Does artistry become a kind of act?
Does playing the role of a painter somehow double it?
I think of myself as terribly private person,
and tend to resent interruptions when I write.
I'm reluctant to even consider that my introversion
is turned inside out when I paint, because it seems trite
to assume that together we're better than we are alone,
but it seems it's a possible truth that I'll now have to own...
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