There is one thing I can state with absolutely certainly. I never end where I began. There’s nothing really unique about that. It’s probably true for others, as well. But in this instance, I am referring specifically to art. This, too, may be true for other artists, as well.
Whenever someone asks how I select what to paint is headed towards the atypical. Most important for me is color long before I pick up a brush. That’s all I think about. I can also say that whatever I may think I want to paint is never what I paint. In fact, I can say I have limited (like zero) control over what I paint. It’s these things pushing their way to the surface demanding to be seen.
This reminds me of a similar experience slightly adjusted. When I was in college there was this student who had a scowl on her face. I never approached her because she terrified me. I, on the other hand, had a pleasant, social disposition.
We both were in a poetry writing class. At some point, after weeks of composing, you share what you’ve produced with those in the class. There is no other option. Well, this woman with nasty demeanor shocked me. She looked nothing like her poetry. It was mellifluous, sublime, thoughts I knew I could never conjure.
During my last quarter, I had completed a slim of work. I was stationed at the only typewriter available for student use on the 23rd floor. Think of two long rectangles with a bridge between the two to better imagine it. That was my perch from 8am until 4pm most of the time. Professors swirled around me and my friendly disposition and we often spoke. Two of my professors had offices on the left wall at that exact intersection. Maureen and Fred kept my columns from collapsing. I was especially close to them both figuratively and literally.
When I distributed the slim volume to the curious, one lecturer stood apart from all others. If anybody wanted to get to the copier room, they couldn’t without passing my perch.
Well, his demeanor had radically shifted. He no longer engaged in conversation, as we had previously. Instead the poor man was crippled by horror and terror. He was a l total wreck. Couldn’t even apologize. But maybe he had seen what I had not — what was inside me? I say this now in retrospect. My life had indeed become (still) a series of terror and horror episodes. But at least now, I know how to express them.
(Gotta go get cigarettes.)
Things That Never Made It Into Print ... 