This is white like the hue of wood,

That is white like charcoal's soot,

This is white like oyster shells' sheen,

That is white like paper, industrially bleached and clean.

 

No shade of white can beat the industry's gleam,

White is a spectrum, ever-changing it seems,

Tints of yellow, a natural white,

What is natural, elusive in sight.

 

From a tiny square blooms industrial white,

Only relative to the rest, a mere sight.

 

Colouring the (industrial strength) bleached paper in with colour pencil, charcoal pencil and polun (all in white), all the way until a square remains at the centre. 

 

This square arises from other squares arising from the crisscrossing of white lines. What is supposed to be conceptual is concretised on this media. White is merely relative – white does not exist here.