as the deadlines for the spring show and internships are approaching and i've been looking at my meager work that i've produced this year, the first few lines of rudyard kipling's "the conundrum of the workshops" have come into my mind:
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"