Between the footprints, vast chasms opened up. To tread the Earth with gargantuan talent is to leave lesser men behind. Each step that he took with his art left me worlds behind in my ability to keep up.
I fear that I will never understand the path that Nick Justus takes with his art.
But, then again, maybe it was never intended for me to understand it, any of it. After all, his artistic talent is a gift to not just all of mankind, but a personal journey through the stars of his own imagination, for himself.
I live in a place that is black with stars, a mere pinprick on the multidimensional continuum that is the artistic life of a certain artist who plods along at a snail's pace. With eager fervor, I yearn to witness his newest creation. What torment it is for Nick Justus to not draw more often.
Truly, he is the gander that parades an egg of golden talent, but seldom is the show. What manner of madness is this?!
Yet, in all things, there is purpose. It is hardly Nick Justus' fault that my perception of life's mysteries is so utterly lacking.
On a positive note, when the furnace of Nick Justice's artistic engine does not glow red hot, I busy myself with other matters, with lesser things.
How unfortunate, though, that he seems so disinclined to transition into a forge where supernovae are born. Inside him, entire galaxies and clusters of imaginative art pieces orbit an axis that turns at a rate that I simply can't appreciate.
Art does not flow from his fingertips so much as it drips with methodical denial - denying fans such as I the opportunity to awaken each day with fresh fruit of the artistic kind to consume.
Where Nick Justus is concerned, he keeps close company with Jesus E. Lee, noble hero of Virginia, and recently possessed. This is all good and well, all fine and dandy. But, it makes for a lean portfolio. It makes for sparse picking for those that seek out his latest contribution to the world of art.
What good are blogs and Twitters and Tumblrs, if they are mute with the Plague of the Mime? It is said that silence is golden, but that does not mean that all silence is, therefore, golden. Some silence is like an icepick of cruelty. With each day that new art does not come forth from the tip of his brush or pens, I am stabbed, anew, by the dagger of disappointment.
The harsh, fierce winds of reality blow me off course, into the realms of other artists. The footprints of Nick Justus' art often appear to be few and far between. Thus, I trek through canyons of other men's work. All the while, my eye searches the distant horizon, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of where this gargantuan stepped last.
And the grand twist of irony in it all is that his laments about being a struggling artist are traceable directly to a healthy lack of appreciation for the true and full measure of his own artistic gift.
One cannot explode upon the scene, if one lights their own gunpowder one grain at a time.
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