There it sits in front of the artist;
It could be a blank canvas,
It could be a lump of stone,
But with me
It is a blank sheet of paper.
Where do we start?
That first brushstroke sets the scene,
The first tap of chisel on stone
Can create the work,
The first word I write
Leads me into a new world.
Each artist, sculptor or poet
Releases their hearts
Into their creations,
All are different
But they all come from the same place,
They all come from within,
Within the mind,
Within the heart,
Within the soul,
From within the artist.