Did you have a go? Did you polish, and see your own magnificent multi-faceted reflection? Your beautiful mind?
This is called sculpture.
Now Will, yours is going to look opaque, Michelangelo rather lovely, Hancock not there. Art is tourettes you see. There are different levels.
I would describe Beethoven as looking 'particularly arduous'. Know when you're beat, and try something else. Put the CD on. The correct attitude is not resentment, it is 'Thank fuck I can't do that one'.
Now that ceiling I would call 'The most magnificent prank ever played'. I see the comedians the easiest. Monkhouse was a faker, WLC if you like, Sellers wasn't there. He was an actor.
Look Damien! What's he pointing at? He used to do anatomy. You can't.
Now I do requests for the muse. I find them odd. If she were to say do Burns say, it would translate as 'Walk a long way, learn an accent, then photocopy this poem, that I've already got in my hand, in order that I may read it'.
But I don't mind at all. I can breathe her. She gives me life. She can breathe life into me. Without her I am clay. We are in align. Without her I am dead. She gives me the kiss of life.
This is love.