to smooth to touch
Art today is too smooth to touch. It slides right off the tongue—sanitized, symmetrical, emotionally gluten-free. It smells like money and disinfectant. Every pixel behaves. Every edge has been negotiated. The soul left quietly years ago and was last seen chewing charcoal behind a gas station, whispering about light and decay.
Painting has become tied to fashion—Titanium Gucci, Versace Black, Balenciaga Beige. Canvas as commodity, pigment as posture. The brush no longer trembles; it poses. It’s a trap, a golden one, lined with influencer dust. The paint is too proud to stain.
Perfection has become a prison disguised as relevance. The wild pulse that once smeared across walls now signs NDAs and posts curated mess on Instagram. Art has ironed out its chaos, polished its ache, and accidentally erased its heartbeat.
