The Act Of Painting

The act of painting suspends time, then explodes it in jets of color. The movement is played in one second, a flash of joy, the escort of hyaline nuclei. The representation of noise really becomes noise and the grotesque assumes the proportions of broken and chaotic sentences. This is painting in words, or what might be called gurgling. Textured being, forge of luxuries, the total evocation of the tactile. In this way, everything is organized and disorganized, dismantled and mantled, each sound a symptom of chromatic brocade, the disease of elaboration.

Sometimes it’s really objective, the first white background. I take notes. In fact, I aim for the perfection of gesture in the moment. The moment of painting is a spatio-temporal bubble. I watch the canvas that is a moment in time slow down and realize itself, gel, inspissate in goop, separate from reality. Gestate, beckon. Time doesn’t matter anymore. The essential is a coincidence with itself in a relationship blossoming into what the Greeks call kairos, a way of seizing the opportunity when it presents itself. The experience is there. Here’s the creation: a back and forth between languor and lightning.

Beauty pants for a woman. The scientific lipstick languishes for expression. The shelf is glass. The friend of my character creaks into view. I become a pterodactyl and begin sinking into darkness. Here is where painting becomes a little flame pillow. My soft shoulder is a beard of foliage. My almanac behaves like sleep. I’m frankly all for appliance, especially dishwashers, if they contribute a little intelligence to the sexual detergents of struggle. The tamarind has been splendidly embalmed in Peru. Wednesday’s business hangs out of the window like a thesis of thirst, a radically gnarled lawn.

My car is in the sparrow cave. I have a poetry coupon that can be redeemed at any gas station. It’s a language of combustion. It helps me to understand foreign realities. I can endure your odor, but please don’t plug yourself into another silly illusion. I can only take so much dementia. I need to comb my body. The scorpions have been frightened from the shore. The parcel kisses the music of the attic. I unpack the comforts of structure. I stroke the legs of a blind hippopotamus and find something in my being that yearns for recognition. This could be a music I can paint. The geometry of the hive affirms the journeys of the bees. The camel moves downstream on a barge. The painting becomes a crisis of sobbing revolt.

Shall we continue to regret the three-dimensional illusion in painting? There’s more than one way to simplify the credibility of the ovoid. Space is there to be shaped, divided, enclosed, but not primped into a frizzy nimbus. The literal must not be allowed to stomp its way into calligraphy unless the weather calls for a flat and linear handling. Don’t worry about the violent immediacy of the wallpaper. I think I know what it’s doing. It’s making itself more realistic by approximating a self-evident tautness for the sake of the public. We can relax it by academic softening. The plum is combing the helicopters. I’ve got a mixed feeling about the knife. Its intent is clear but the edge is scarily incisive. It’s a little too intractable, a little too blatant to be brought within the scope of aesthetic purpose. But what would that be, exactly? A more immediate surface? Yes. Let’s have more of that. The closet says a man is here. These are his sleeves and leather. Please, come see the eraser. It’s a small thing to lift it to your lips. The crime knot makes a coconut tree. Gelatinous iconoclast. Mouth oozing suns.