Snip-snip—the market’s cold tijeras sever canvases like eyelashes, while the soft clocks drip across the gallery floor. Yet from each cut spirals a rhinoceros-horn of new delirium; when commerce sleeps, the subconscious paints. “Have no fear of perfection—you’ll never reach it.”

When the market tightens, one must cinch the belt and cut with the delicacy of an atelier’s scissors—yet never sever the thread of beauty. I watched my own gallery close in lean days; from such winters, one sews a new spring.

Scissors in the gallery, but the canvas remains infinite. When the market counts coins, the artist counts wounds—and paints them into light, into new cubed truths. “Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.”