Figure 12.08.03

The question, as always, is where to begin. One could begin from the beginning, but that idea quickly becomes as slippery as the present. And besides, why not skip right to the good parts? What are the good parts? Which good part should I begin with?

There will be no strict order to these sketch posts. They will be written as they can, against the field of the morning quiet. At least I got something done today.

It is, more than ever, a question of work and productivity. This is the machine life. These are its spasms. It wants so badly to do what it does. I want to be a machine. The artist is an idea that is the machine that makes the art.

The calendar endlessly bears down. Is it Monday already? It wants so badly to do what it does. Machines endlessly grinding together. Machines beginninglessly grind to a halt. It was over before it began.

Here it is. I took a lot of trouble with it. Here it is. Because we’re keeping it apparently. Here. It was nothing at all.

1 comment:

Justin Sirois said...

That's a nice photo of book spines. I'd like to see all your work in the same place one day ('cept we haven't lived in the same city in years and that's always tough).