When I was six years old, fine art meant the most ostentatious color compiled into a globule of paint, splattered against a jaded and pallid surface. Lines and curves were indistinguishable, for their natures were one alike, and their essentials were satisfied by the energy of my hands. Figures were born from the same thought, and the thought did not exist, for it was the heart that sent signals to the palms of my person. Perspective was the boast from a fool's mouth; it was a robotic term programmed into a robot of ignorance. Shadows and light were equal in stature. Consideration of them both subconsciously lingered, starved and famished from lack of recognition. My arms were provided a function, the function to stimulated my fingers in a fragile time of decision of direction so as to transport the slick tip of a Crayola's pen of colored ink, of colored wax, across a blank page of opportunity. When I was six years old, fine art was my creation, and the next revolution was at my fingertips, awaiting its direction, propelled by my heart's commands and desires, and released through the radiance of my eyes, the foretellers of my self.
-FMG
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