For the next couple months I will try to complete paintings by fighting the urge to finish them with text. I want to take medium-sized canvases (up to 24 inches), and color them from start to finish in a day’s work—not so much for brevity as for skill enhancement. Eventually, I want to hold the brush as an extension of my hands, though I need to make my hands collaborate deftly with my confidence. Every brush stroke must matter without mattering. A kind of worker bee Zen Buddhism. I need this to happen. I cannot call myself a painter until I can paint like a successful plumber solders copper pipe. I must finish the job on time, and walk away whistling in the know that there won’t be any leaks. Only then will the evening bread nourish and the hoppy beer intoxicate.
I am turning onto the road of success failure. Purply pink skies in the east.