First there was the point. A stab in the void. A bullet hole in the canvas of nothing. Then the point got antsy, right? It dragged itself sideways like a cockroach fleeing light—boom, you got a line. A scar. A crack in the cosmic egg. But lines get lonely. They breed. They tangle. They birth planes, angles, shapes that box you in, carve the world into prisons of right angles and Ikea shelves. Congratulations, you’ve built a cage. You stack them, howling about circles humming spirituals, yellow screaming like a car alarm. Feeling through geometry. Sure. Tell that to the static eating your brain.
Composition isn’t arrangement. It’s arson. You don’t create—you uncreate. Peel the skin off reality. That black square? It’s not a shape. It’s the absence of shape. The line? A noose. The dot? A tombstone. Kandinsky’s rainbows? Just the sound of a mind clawing at its own walls. Start with the point. End with the void. Everything else? Noise. Decoration. A graffitied urinal. Now go—draw a line. Then erase it. That’s art.