A huge duh-uh epiphany today! Less is more...

I could count twenty such ... Who strive ...
To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat--
Yet do much less ... --so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. ... Somebody remarks
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for? ... (Robert Browning's sad poem about the painter Andrea del Sarto's relationship with his unfaithful young wife Lucrezia)