Before he perceived the runes written in glyphs of granite and quartz, Art saw the officially neutralized replies of passing humanity.
The colour fields of glaringly neutral block out rectangles were unjust. Where was the people's art of non-objective, conceptual, site specific outpouring designed to replace the marginalized, over taxed professional paint? What happened? Art wondered.
In the largeness of geological time we are like out door paint ground down, bleached out, cracked, and blown away. Cold as unheated winter studios Art thought: Where do we house the records of our present painted passings?
Are we to be like the windblown grasses which leave only seeds under the harsh iconoclastic winter snows no soul no memories no teachings no thought no dreaming? Will our terribly taxed endowment fall upon stone and into water?
Without regard for the fate of generations life goes on eked out of cracks in stone earth hugging behind low shelters from the Wild West Wind like painters and outlaw easels, refugees from a fundamentalist duress, acceptant of what is and what can be
The old man master said: Artists make do.
And they did do it.