The Smudging Makes The Paintings A Bit

Weeks Go By, And I Dont Paint Until Finally I Cant Stand It Any Longer. I Get Fed Up. I Almost Dont Want To Talk About It, Because I Dont Want To Become Self-conscious About It, But Perhaps I Create These Little Crises As A Kind Of A Secret Strategy To Push Myself.

My Method Is Related To An Attempt To Do Something That Might Be Understood By Today's World, Or That Could At Least Provide Understanding. In Other Words, Doing Something I Understand And That Everyone Understands. This Natural Desire For Communication Is Also Found In Other Domains, Like Reading And Discourse, Etc. I Also Hate Repeating Myself; It Gives Me No Pleasure Whatsoever. Once I've Understood Something, I Need To Start Off On New Ground.

Talk About Painting: There's No Point. By Conveying A Thing Through The Medium Of Language, You Change It. You Construct Qualities That Can Be Said, And You Leave Out The Ones That Can't Be Said But Are Always The Most Important.

In Truth, Factual Information - Names Or Dates - Have Never Interested Me Much. Those Things Are Like An Alien Language That Can Interfere With The Language Of The Painting, Or Even Prevent Its Emergence.

Art Is The Ideal Medium For Making Contact With The Transcendental, Or At Least For Getting Close To It.