When they were in art school, Peter used to say that everything you do is a self-portrait. It might look like “Saint George and the Dragon” or “The Rape of the Sabine Women,” but the angle you use, the lighting, the composition, the technique, they’re all you. Even the reason you chose this scene, it’s you. You are every color and brushstroke.
Peter used to say, “The only thing an artist can do is describe his own face.”
You’re doomed to being you.
This, he says, leaves us free to draw anything, since we’re only drawing ourselves.
Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china patterns you choose. It’ll all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand.
Everything is a self-portrait.
Everything is a diary.
“Everything is nothing by itself.”
What you don’t understand you can make mean anything.
Leonardo’s Mona Lisa is just a thousand thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo’s David is just a million hits with a hammer. We’re all of us a million bits put together the right way.
It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness.
We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.
What I don’t understand can mean anything.
I can’t help but be suspicious. What is your angle? Why are you doing this? Has every joke and kindness been a ploy?
Do I know you, really?
There must be a reason.
I wonder what you’re thinking of. I wonder what you’re planning.
I wonder what we are edging towards, you and I.
I wonder if I’m insane.