The Absent Artist

. There on the canvas a chaos of dazzling colors pulsates as a blinding blur of tints and tinges. At an angle, it throbs as a soft, slow-mo swirl of a mute, intergalactic explosion of hues. From another, it flows as a fluid light from a prism into the depths of a micro- protoplasmic sea. Is it a glorious sunrise or a sad sunset, perhaps? Or mere myriads of refracted thoughts and feelings? The mood and temper of the art beholder, the ultimate judge, hard- headed and fickle: Does the absent artist make any sense in what was or wasn't painted? Or does that matter? .