This is very true, and his later points--about the color of the paint and the rivets and so on, are equivalent to something that I keep telling people. Art is not life. Art is not true to life. if you look at an Ansel Adams photograph of, say, a birch wood, and then one by, oh, me, you'll notice a difference.
Mine looks like a snapshot. His looks real, dewy, breathy, moist, stark, just like walking through mist on an Autumn morning into a deciduous forest.
And you know why his looks real and mine looks small and fake?
Because his is staged. That's right. It's framed and cropped just so, and he waited his moment with the light, and he shot fifty images to get that one.
The same way everything that goes into my writing is artifice, tweaked to make it look as real as possible.
And also, ginmar, "Again with the coffee."