Oh, little boy ...
I see your rough strokes on paper, and your childish discharges of color charged with emotions that could be called art from afar. And an immense regret overflows me to see the compliments of parents and relatives towards our young artist.
It is not envy, I assure you. I only see the mirror of the past and I wonder - will it continue to improve? Will he take painting classes? - I do not deny your talent, because in you it is latent. But you can not depend on talent, and your brusque strokes and excess colors will not always be worthy of praise; As you grow, your audience will be more demanding, more critical.
-What will happen to the young artist if he does not improve his technique based on the false self-esteem created by the praise of the past?
Just now you have thousands of ideas, thousands of worthy drawings to be flattered, they are a great feat for someone your age.
You have naked canvases and a color palette full of desire to leave your life on the canvas.
You do not know how much I long for you to develop your talent, time is running out.
It is sad to see young artists as they grow up, die with them colors; who once brought joy to the walls of the house and the refrigerator door, now they die one by one until they reach the heart of the apple, where lies the eternal black color, without beginning and without end, as old as the universe itself.
But not only the colors were victims of the massacre of fate, along with them the false self-esteem was also killed, destroying everything in its path. Leaving that successful artist of the past only a heart of rotten and poisonous apple.
Those firm and safe strokes became thousands of blots and leaves thrown away, those original works of art born in the subconscious child, now are just a sad attempt to copy a foreign style, and those beautiful colors that transmitted life and happiness , they were murdered and buried in the darkest path of their rotten heart. Of which now only appear shades vilely classified as "B" and "H".
- Who would say it? - That talent and those flatteries would be causes of their own destruction. After being the beautiful prince of the thousand colors; you die to become a disgusting classification between "H" and "B".
Now you are just a corpse devoid of happiness, yearning to find that false acceptance again. Yearning that "something" that returns the colors that your own pride and ignorance murdered.
But not all is lost...
Those colors were never dead. They remained hidden deep in the heart of the apple, waiting to be remembered and make love to the naked canvas again.
That reunion will be. "The Renaissance of the Artist"
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