The minimalist aesthetic expresses—and therefore betrays—nothing of those who adopt it. It is a non-statement, a refusal to answer painful questions about the self. The smooth monochromatic surfaces subdue a soul desperate to reveal itself, but terrified of doing so.
When sensitive children are born to parents ill-equipped to raise them—burdening them with a sense of shame (for who they are) and unworthiness (for failing to measure up to some unattainable, ill-conceived ideal)—it can be difficult for them to do the work of determining their self-worth. Their way becomes obscured by self-doubt, insecurity and fear, and they devote themselves to earning validation through the exploitation of their gifts. For artists, this often results in a perversion of their work, which they abuse to gain attention—creating to please rather than praise, protest or perfect—devoid of an authentic vision, producing whatever will soothe the desperation within.
Of a sensitive disposition myself, I have come to learn that it was a product of pure chance that I was born to parents incapable of truly understanding my nature; that I grew up with false information about myself—a distorted reflection of my value not only from them, but also those individuals into whose care they placed me. Were I born to parents capable of properly raising a sensitive child, I would not suffer the emotional handicap that thwarts me today. I have learnt that I do have worth, but that it was never affirmed in the way I needed it to be—as a boy, a young man, and now a man. This knowledge is liberating. It gives me a glimpse of life without anxiety, penance and doubt.