The confines of a child’s excitement are without boundary. When the paint slings, it lands on the canvass in a heap of disarray. But that’s the beauty of the child’s imagination; it’s one that is unblemished, one that has not yet been polluted by the social conventionalism which permeates the adult body.
The authoritarians tell the parents, who then tell the child, that it’s improper to wear leggings on the head, and that the current forms of nature are not to be recreations of imaginative figures. If you’re girl, you must paint with the dainty colors, florescent rays of lavender, fuchsia and blush. If you’re a boy, the colors must reflect a certain level of machismo, ebony, the pecan browns and hints of graphite.
However, the child’s rendition is that of the rainbow. Black and grey is also tangerine and marmalade. And this is because the child’s artistic hand can take an ugly work and, from it, recreate an adaption that highlights its true, aesthetic nature.