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Sympathy at their wimpiness, like neoteny in humans, a neoteny in painting, the painting looks up at you with wide glassy eyes, pleading love. Babies are by definition, pathetic, we care for their inadequacy, pin their drawings to our wall, give them a gold star, knowing full well "we could totally do that." But that's not why we love them. Their innocence, that you could crush them. The Eden of innocence we cannot get back to, but every modernist inhaling enough rags to make them light headed enough to try.
