Whiskey at this late hour, reflecting and being; the sweat of labor still cools my skin. In the warehouse studio there is no judgement or noise or frustration. There is the living; uncompetitive and poignant. I lose myself in the working, opening up to the autonomy of each painting and discovering.
I white mark on surface, so pure and amazing and I think of the blackness of Caravaggio and keep working, striving toward the deep, the deep.
Wish I was ocean size
They cannot move you
No one tries
There's illumination in this black paint and mark-making. And now there's whiskey, sweet and warm and the day fades into another. The time in the studio is pure; like love, like time spent with daughters or walking along the Bosporus, or standing on the edge of volcano in Guatemala. Life. Living. The act of living is moving ever towards dying...and it makes me smile tonight as I paint in my head and see what these will be. Cool night kissed the rafters and rained down goodness and there is seeing. Much seeing and some doing. A good night.
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