A Rabbi once asked: “Is it the helicopter to the top that satisfies?”

At times, artistic expression is as climbing. It is the journey that matters, the actual experience of the diffusion of sweat, despair, and to be taken by the clawing hand of an absent idea about to appear through our extremities into an amalgamation of tool- and destination-media.

The genius lies in the survival of that journey, no, in the rebirth through that unstable, maddening journey and that incisive or unstopping blunt critique of life.

That’s clogs of kitsch as blisters on one’s ego, sifted away by the possible nascence of art, the empty page from the vastness of potential, the noise pressed into a meaning-making form as function.

Artistry: to be spread out along paths, not paved by others. And if delegated to a giant’s shoulder, a backpack or a mule: they are companions, not enslaved shortcuts.

That’s where the calculated haphazardness unveiled the beauty slipping away from the dismissive observer, either through awe or disgust alike, ever waiting for you at your Godot-like top, poking at you

—animasuri’22