The Irony

What a difference three weeks make. Irony is what I feel right now.

Exactly three weeks ago, the picture painted was bright and rosy, all planned to draw the viewer closer in, to take a better look at the beauty of it all, to savour it and be part of the composition. It was without a doubt, a A+ masterpiece.

Three Sundays later, while the picture did not seem to change much from the viewer's point of view, the artist has decided that the work is no longer a masterpiece. In fact, there was just something wrong with the composition, just that one can't put one's finger on it, to say why the painting just doesn't work. Is it the light, the colours, the subject? One just can't say conclusively. As such, it was better to destroy the work right now before more time was spent on refining it, because afterall, fundamentally, there was a flaw, an unknown flaw, and hence cannot be remedied.

So the work was destroyed, with all the same certainty it was a failure, as it was a masterpiece three weeks ago.

The abruptness. The finality. The irony.