Post #358 • September 1, 2004, 7:18 AM • 3 Comments
September. Crunch time. My solo show at Dorsch opens the third Saturday in October. I'm painting something that contradicts the other work I intended for the exhibition. My muse is acting like a complete bitch. Moving off the beach and into my house changed my work, but am I progressing or flailing? Can one do both simultaneously? I keep forgetting to make time to shave. And, with apologies to everyone else, something has happened concerning someone who will know what this quote from Minor White relates to:
Often while traveling with a camera we arrive just as the sun slips over the horizon of a moment, too late to expose film, only time enough to expose our hearts.
And we can do nothing but wait for the sun to return. I am thinking of a flatness as aggressive as the impasto I was using before. I feel grateful to handle paint. Ultramarine and quinacridone and iron oxide have become like jewels to me. I smear them around like a rich man, but one who earned his wealth a dime at a time. Even beige takes on the qualities and value of gold. I paint and paint and paint. What people call the art world has become like a party on the other side of town which I don't want to attend and didn't get invited to anyway. Meanwhile my masters sit at the table in my head - I can't say who or they'll get up and leave. They know flatness. I look at their art and try to clue in. They glance at each other with concerned expressions. Then I return to the studio. Come to my show in October. Look for me there: the skeleton with the beating heart, propped up on a chair in the office, with nothing to say except what you may infer from the art in the gallery.