Post #1415 • November 9, 2009, 8:36 AM • 11 Comments
The more art I make, the less the reasons for doing so are justifiable or even explicable, the less I can render the motivations into words. My body is engaged in a process that my mind has little to do with, except to chatter away in the background like a parrot present at a conversation between lovers. Balthus, here, has something I want. Drawing his painting from one of my books on him - I must have four of them by now - gave me a little dosage. I enjoy teaching, but I wish I could stay in the studio today and ride the inspiration. I would be a better artist but a worse person if I did so. Today the demands on the person call and the artist will forgive the person when he sees the room full of students, young and curious. But the painting in progress in the studio awaits like an unscratched itch.