I am finding home, and this is a pursuit of the impossible. The ecstasy of a split-second encounter with it (the impossible) is so good, it is too much, but I grab at it and go go go; that feeling of restfulness, yes, is weightlessness before a drop, comfort is just (—where just is everything—) cushioning before a blow. The sequencing glues it all together, and when I grab at it and go go go I trace my motions in pigment so that I don’t repeat. Wash and repeat.
Painting for me is the glue that binds me to others; it is where I do my pursuing, and surprisingly, masochistically, people watch and applaud. (I guess I am highly relatable when I exist as a painting.) I continue for the mini-completions, the arrivals that are immediately beset by departures, the finishing and the restarting that, when layered one on top of the other, up up up and out and back under, take the form of a process unending. It is (just) that, and I make my home in it, and once in a while it corners and I’m reoriented by a lurch and a brake.
Translated to what you see before you: there are breaks and freefalls and encounters and dismissals. I have no qualms about calling [a painting] done because I am just starting. I spread myself thinner and thinner with water to increase my want of reconstitution; and then plops down a confident glob to scatter the weak, and then flies forth a bristle brush to disrupt the geography. Arbitrary intentionality! Impassioned randomness! Take note: I’m clearly confident in something because I admittedly haven’t a clue what I’m doing. In a close to perfect moment I don’t paint I just do and things happen, and if it looks like shit then I smile at its brownness and get some sleep, and if it works… Then I revel for a second in its presence and steady myself for the fall.
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