Great art draws us out of ourselves, renders personality irrelevant, reminds us that we are part of a much vaster unfolding than the merely me. Consider the work of Mark Rothko, most notably from the fifties and sixties. He didn’t anoint or prettify things. And unlike many others in his paint-splashing cohort, he was radically uninterested in himself.
Do I want to strangle myself…but slowly? Parsimony provides the perfect garrote.