Strange figurative things started to happen in the studio today. Sweating, even with the window unit on, I got sick to death of the abstractions and just started throwing paint around. Still trying to prime the canvases so I can go after them with oils… who knows where it ends, but the one thing that is true is: I don’t understand people who paint to relax. What the fuck is relaxing about painting? It seems like a dance with death… very tense… There are moments of bliss, I suppose, but most of it is a filthy slog… a long march through leach filled swamps under artillery attack… or is that all in my head? The problem is, it is all in my head… also I’ve got to build some panels. In the end, I hate canvas. It’s a shitty surface to work on. It’s always giving way, like a trampoline, or a pillow. Okay for sailing the Pequod towards the White Whale, but rotten for brushing and beating with paint.
