When a man’s mind compels his hands to create art but his hands fail to deliver what the mind demands, his passion may morph into rage. Not an unrestrained external rage that endangers bystanders, but a smoldering animosity that sears his brain as if touched by white-hot steel. Perhaps the hands’ refusal to follow the mind’s commands is an instrument of instruction, a means of teaching patience—or acquiescence to the limits of one’s skills. But, instead of learning, that failure to produce the desired outcome can lead to burning; the incineration of inspiration in a mental kiln of one’s own creation. Soot and smoke and the creosote of oxygen-starved ideas settle on a once-clear image, leaving it buried beneath a layer of unmet expectations.
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