A work of art is neither an absolute deception nor an absolute truth, but emerges from a dead center between the two.
You weave a thought with the sprints of creativity alone and it becomes a shadowy existence, diffusing vaguely.
You weave a thought with the ambiguity of intellect alone and it becomes a faraway flame, having no element of intimacy.
Standing on that dead center, you can create something agile, firm, and intimate, to pass it on to the worshipers of art through generations.
Creating a work of art is like flying the kite of truth, gently swaying it with the wind but not letting it go completely off the hook.