So in this little breakdown the artist plays and muddles about without restraint, doing reckless things he wouldn't normally consider. He starts to enjoy what his delinquent hand id doing and marvels at the improbable shapes and marks that are appearing in the ruins of his failed and timid work: the way the pink has smeared into the vermillion and the way the pale blues shines through the scratches. To his amazement he starts to find mysteries and tantalizing elements in the disorder. He starts to recognize old visual pleasures and fresh new ones. he sees that his hand has a mind of its own and has painted a bemused face into the otherwise dreary branches of the tree; and the lackluster hills he had attempted are now a sleeping woman who smiles in peaceful rapture. He loves what is being painted. Love and recognition are working together and he's enchanted by the beautiful mess of it all.