Shadow within the light--another pretentious title for a single black streak flown across an otherwise glaring yellow splattered canvas. I hate your art, I really do. I used to think that maybe the world you saw and the world I saw were running parallel with an ever so slight attraction. Intersection would be found, I told myself. Your brilliance and mine were of different worlds, or some other finely honed platitude, crafted from nice words to mean nothing. I meant nothing a lot those first few days, weeks, months.
It's good to see your pictures and person for what they are now. It makes me angry and emotional and sometimes I break things you gave me (physical things; or did you ever wonder where the vase went to?). (Hey, look at that period after the parentheses after the question mark; you like those peculiar sentences. I of course hate them; I'll rewrite this letter before I send it.) So yes, I do think your art isn't worth the canvas you disgrace with each shameful stroke. But you aren't ashamed of anything your dainty little hands touch, are you? Each piece is a masterpiece, by virtue of you creating it. Every smug smile at my bewilderment or straining to find some redeeming value in a white canvas with two parallel green stripes and one perpendicular red one makes me think more and more about what sort of onomatapeia is best for ripping canvas and slamming doors in the same instant.
So here's your picture of an unevenly coated yellowed canvas and one black streak painted with two downward strokes of a three inch brush I bought for you back when I believed you really were beyond me. Now I see nothing about you beyond or near me. Everything is distant and down; it makes me feel arrogant and uncomfortable, but I can live with that. Here's the moment where you're studying me to assure that I'm sufficiently bewildered to make your art great, and I'm supposed to furrow my brow and ask deep questions about this ridiculous smattering of a painting. I did a little better this time; I answered my ringing phone and took you to the movies. You didn't want to revel in my admiring opinion of your worthwhileness, you wanted to masturbate to my abashed submission to your greatness. So next time I see you, I'm going to turn off this game and shut you down. I'm going to say... say... I'm...