Not human afterall

I wasn't always human, one time I lived in series of paintings. It was a strange existence, hanging there on a wall, maybe at some exhibition or in a private house on the stairway. Then there was storage, under wraps where nothing really happened, just a deep, warm darkness where I was free to think. I preferred that, better than being gawped at by some patron or wine glass juggling freeloader or ending up on the wall of a middle class residence being ignored or dusted occasionally. 

I suppose I could see others, take a viewing, be sociable and liked when I was out there. Look across at my compatriots, oily, watery, mixed media or what ever they consisted of but the conversation level was low. Truly we didn't care for one another, what was the point? Even being scrapped or overpainted didn't feel so bad, just a return to the warm darkness of not quite being. That was the problem really, if nobody was actually looking at me, studying me, did I exist at all? And at those times, when there was no need for me to return some studious or appreciative gaze I felt more alive than ever, knowing and feeling more a being. Not being judged or glossed over or auctioned. Just there, very much in my own personal space, being me, simply two dimensional and slowly drying out. Turning human, when I did happen (and that's something that I can't quite explain) was a bit of a disappointment.

I try not to dwell on any of that, I just live my life, my past as a painting is long gone but every so often I'll visit a gallery or exhibition, just to check up, just to see how it's all going, just to try to connect. It never does work though, I've lost the language, I've broken the connection, I've moved on to another plane and nobody on either side of the canvas cares. That's what living various odd lives gives you, the opportunity to see from other perspectives, to be watched and to watch. To be a creation and a comment and have some meaning, the one that which the viewer gives you and then the one that you give yourself. But what about the artists you say? Well they just do what we tell them.