When suspended in a tube, paint contains boundless opportunity. It feels perverse,
somehow, to apply it to canvas: who am I to tell it what to do? It’s all right there in its
red or yellow or blueness.
somehow, to apply it to canvas: who am I to tell it what to do? It’s all right there in its
red or yellow or blueness.
But that line of thinking halts creation, perhaps more sinful than fetishizing objects. There’s a compromise somewhere, but I don’t know where to settle.
In my hedonism, I wondered how to make a painting with my entire studio. I began
cramming every tool and material and memory into a pile ready to ignite.
As the horde grew, so did my hostility.
cramming every tool and material and memory into a pile ready to ignite.
As the horde grew, so did my hostility.
As I perverted creation into destruction, I imagined igniting the mass, flames licking at its sides until it crumbled to my feet.
But when I’d adjust an object on one end and hear something fall on the other, I could
instantly identify what I hoped I hadn’t broken.
instantly identify what I hoped I hadn’t broken.
My pyre is built, but I’ll forgo the fire and, instead, carefully pack up each beloved,
maddening item until it’s time to make again.
maddening item until it’s time to make again.
Viewing for one with kindling
