You scroll through more images on the toilet
than a medieval peasant saw in their entire life.
That’s not a metaphor. It’s your reality.
You think you’re consuming.
You’re not.
You’re skimming.
Tapping.
Pretending to care.
And nowhere is this more obvious than in front of a painting.
Most people treat art like hotel wallpaper.
Look. Snap. Move on.
A backdrop for your ego. Something to “see” before you brag about it.
Even the critics fake it.
Five seconds in front of the canvas.
Five pages of interpretation.
The painting watches them leave —
maybe with relief.
Because here’s the truth:
You won’t consume the painting.
If you’re lucky, the painting will consume you.
But that requires something you’re not good at: stopping.
In the vacuum of space, objects moving at different speeds can’t touch.
No friction. No resistance. No handshakes.
To make contact, you have to match velocity.
You have to slow down.
Art is the same.
The painting doesn’t move.
It doesn’t scroll.
It doesn’t care who you are.
It just waits.
Unimpressed. Unmoving. Indifferent.
If you want to meet it,
you match its speed.
That means silence.
Breath.
Stillness.
No commentary.
No timestamp.
No exit plan.
It’s like a Ferrari flashing by.
From the sidewalk, it’s a blur.
Match its speed, and suddenly — detail. Shape. Intention.
You don’t see more.
You just stop missing what was always there.
You don’t have to like Ferraris. Or paintings.
But if you want them to speak to you,
stop outrunning them.
There’s a story about Wu Tao-tzu, an ancient painter.
When he finished his life’s work,
he turned to the emperor,
clapped his hands —
and walked into the painting.
Gone.
Not a myth.
Not a metaphor.
Just a man who finally moved slow enough to disappear.
And maybe that’s the secret:
Art doesn’t care if you see it.
But if you go still enough, quiet enough —
it might see you back.
→ Who moves first?
