Poetry reveals a power of the unknown.  But the unknown is only an insignificant void if it is not the object of a desire.  Poetry is a middle term, it conceals the known within the unknown: it is the unknown painted in blinding colors, in the image of a sun.— Georges Bataille This encapsulates the work of my favorite artists.  They acknowledge the unknowable.  They accept the limitations and faults of humankind.  Then they paint them in blinding colors, in the image of the sun.  The beautiful, unapproachable sun.  We know what is but can never comprehend what it is.  We are condemned to appreciate it.  To worship it.  To study it.  All while it ignores our insignificance. 

  Poetry reveals a power of the unknown.  But the unknown is only an insignificant void if it is not the object of a desire.  Poetry is a middle term, it conceals the known within the unknown: it is the unknown painted in blinding colors, in the image of a sun.
— Georges Bataille


This encapsulates the work of my favorite artists.  They acknowledge the unknowable.  They accept the limitations and faults of humankind.  Then they paint them in blinding colors, in the image of the sun.  The beautiful, unapproachable sun.  We know what is but can never comprehend what it is.  We are condemned to appreciate it.  To worship it.  To study it.  All while it ignores our insignificance. 

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