I believe every classical painter who left masterpieces in the world could only fabricate such spectacular breathtaking fascination because they weren’t frightened of gawking straight through the flawed unattractiveness they assume to have inside of themselves.
They chose to utter to themselves that
“from now on,
I’ll take up this brush and paint my pyrrhic heart with blossoms,
I’ll make it an urn or amphora from which grandeur can swell.
I’ll make it and attach facets to the cloud of gloom that seems sprawl and nestle their grasps throuvh my veins.
I’ll grab the chisel not to kill myself but I’ll carve out a windstorm and maybe even a summer gust when I feel my head below the surface of a densed lake-
I won’t drown today, because I have selected to make this day something else, something I can bear”
perhaps they just wished to simply paint flowers (blossoms) in urn. Regardless of the purpose behind masterpieces, they’ll make us think and ponder. And impart to people, the world, the universe in truly unique, exceptional, outstanding ways.