It was another morning of ripping apart a refrigerator door and than carrying it over the draw bridge, so I could draw on it. I felt like a perverse sort of Beach Boy, carrying an aluminum board past the piers that bloom like six petaled lotus flowers, from the murky poison of the Gowanus canal.
I was drawing the hungry men again… only on a taller door.
He seems to be eating a Twombly, or is it spaghetti? or is it his own black heart?
I was working late and tearing up some things and scribbling and listening to NPR and thinking about politics and war and terror and erasing. Outside it was a balmy night so I decided to walk the dicey industrial streets home from Smith and 9th. I’m fairly in love with the F line bridge over the canal. It’s all wrapped now in carbon fiber, or something and the train roars by in a yellow rumble. There was a lady doing watercolors under the tressle of the oil tanks and the canal (she had a flashlight in her mouth). I was going to snap her picture when the Fire department showed up with sirens blaring and lights throwing red. Maybe they thought she wast taking particularly aesthetic notes on where to plant the bombs? Actually, I think they were just testing the water preassure of the hydrants, but who knows? I’ve been stopped a few times photographing bridges and things.
On the way home I was thinking about how I only had one fridge door left and boom there was a fridge in front of me. I was starting to carry it home, when I realized it was all dented up on one edge. I’m kind of particular about the edges of these things, so I threw it back. Still it’s nice to know I can fish so easily. But I’m also stretching a canvas tomorrow. These big drawings are giving me ideas about paintings and vice versa.
