I'm on the beach and Andrea passed us by. I'm watching the trails of lighting flashes in the sky and thinking about the two unresolved canvases in the studio back home. I was invited to be part of a group exhibition, so more on that when I have dates and more information.
The girls of summer are strewn on hotel beds; all-day poolside and ocean air-kissed sleeping the sleep of children and animals, unfettered by anxieties of the past or future. Life is new and immediate...these things we lose with age, and try every day to regain again.
The moment. Painting is so much about being present, patient and watchful. Every action creates possibility, and denies options. Make a mark. This single act of dissidence causes the whole of the universe to rush forward with all the power of its being. So paintings fail. Most are not built to withstand, but then, some do. I'm in the zone. New wall built, another one will be erected soon in the studio and with it more wall space, more contemplation of this thing, these visions that keep me moving forward and embracing the blessed uncertainty.
Black. White. Neutral elements and yet so powerful. Associations with the abyss and always with me I am looking to Caravaggio and, -as of late, grappling with that son of bitch and his blackness. No one paints the emptiness so full of presence. No one ever has. The Don Voisine show did that for me to lesser degree. Those blacks were so astoundingly rendered; so technical and precise and each painting so nailed. Well done, Maestro. Well done.
And what of this strange split life? New York every other month? Counterbalanced by the bucolic daily life and studio and town and Main Street dying around me like countless Main Streets dying all over the nation. The night is quiet and dim save the trains that thunder through day in and day out. I watch the cars filled to the brim with coal, then retuning empty, then full again the next day.
But tonight the sea. Moonlight and surf and stars and thoughts of the work in progress.
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