I live inside a painting by the only artist there ever was.
How could I lay claim to anything since I myself have been painted by the original hand.
I am a plagiarist brought to life by that hand.
If you praise me I will not hold onto it as it is not mine to keep.
Even these hands were never mine.
The painting….it moves, it feels, it thinks. It pulses, it is still.
It creates, it destroys. It rises, it falls.
It screams, it is silent. It is ecstatic,
It is devastation. It is sacred, it is profane.
Look through the picture, see the paint.
Look through the paint, see the artist.
How could I ever imagine myself alone?
How could I know my own existence without the hand that painted me?
There’s a question I cannot answer but I keep asking.
And the question answers itself wordlessly through the paint.
Who is the artist?
Annette Morris Keane