BLINDING SUNSET
In a time when everything must prove it’s “human,” painting might be the last proof that cannot be certified.
Not because it is flawless.
But because it trembles.
A canvas doesn’t verify identity — it exposes vulnerability. Every brushstroke is a risk. Every mistake remains, like a visible scar. No system can truly simulate the hesitation before the blank surface, the quiet struggle between what you meant to say and what the color allows.
Art is not a signature at the bottom.
It is a wound that chooses to be seen.
If we must speak of “proof of humanity,” let it be this: the courage to desire an image so deeply that you accept you cannot fully control it.
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