I like this.


You could say the same about a lot of art, too, which is why I am automatically wary and suspicious of any painting jumping up and down waving flags that say “LOOK AT ME, I’M SYMBOLIC OF SOMETHING!” Nevertheless, I would be a little hurt to think that my art was meaningless, but it’s not the sort of 1:1 symbol-to-meaning ratio that I could haul out and say “This abstract spoon is the suffering of women in Walmart sweat shops, and the chicken is capitalism and the moose represents the Vatican,” unless I’m trying to be funny.

Needless to say, t’other Ursula (in the shadow of whose name I have lived since I got the Earthsea trilogy at seven) says it better, because she’s da man. Which is why, when they read off the roster of Great Ursulas at the end of time, I am aspiring for the number four position at best.*

*The martyred saint and Ursula Andress, before you ask. Which one I was named after depends on which of my parents you ask. Sure, I’d like to think that an artist could eventually surpass a Bond girl, but c’mon, who are we kidding?

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