I used to think painting was an act of addition.

A white canvas, layers of paint added one by one. The more colors, the more complete it felt, the more it resembled a “great” artwork.

Until a few days ago, when something in my head suddenly clicked, like being gently knocked awake.

I realized great painters aren’t painting objects. They’re painting shadows. They mark what needs to be dark first. And the parts left untouched, the brain fills them in on its own.

We don’t need to paint everything clearly. Blank space already knows how to speak. That’s when I thought of Photoshop masks. It’s never about endlessly adding, but about erasing what isn’t needed.

We’re not creating more. We’re choosing what remains. And then I couldn’t help but smile. Because life seems to work the opposite way.

We keep adding layers to ourselves, titles, roles, labels, “who I should be,” “who I’m supposed to look like.” Layer upon layer, until even breathing feels heavy.

But what if life is also a canvas? Maybe what needs to be done isn’t to paint more, but to gently remove what’s unnecessary.

The unused titles. The oversized hats. The labels that were never really ours.

Erase them. What’s left behind will be clearer than we expect.

Perhaps becoming ourselves was never about addition at all, but a quiet, decisive act of subtraction.



—— XC Scribbles · 伍拾捌 LVIII 🎨