And when I painted the trees
You stood behind me and admired the unclear strokes,
The quivering blend of black and green.
You beamed at the audacity
And told me you could even hear
The madcap panic of those leaves
Awaiting summer storm.
I was confused
(For I had only sketched out what was there)
I thought about my second eyes
And wiped the streaks
That took the clarity away...
It made me smile
To think I'd found what you could never know:
The thing that you'd mistaken
For my Art
Was nothing more
Than accidental lack of sight.
I really hate smug critics, and I hate being told what art is about.
There are a few things touched on here: selective sight in those "in the know" (how many times do they see what they want to see?), the misunderstanding or misreading of intention, the way our personal vision can't help but affect what we create... and, of course, a little bit of weirdness.
I mean, let's be honest. Haven't you ever seen a work of "art" that you could swear was made by a person who just needed to clean her glasses?