I’ll know I have painted my own perfection the morning I can tell my wife, as we sip coffee in the window chair, that I have achieved the magic breeze, and sent the latest piece back to from where it came. The day I approach a blank canvas with the same confidence a journeyman plumber tightens a sink drain will be fine, yes, and may come in my lifetime. The magic breeze I am talking about visited the modern masters. Van gogh, Picasso, Philp Guston even… I am confident I could define it, if it ever came. Rembrandt? Velasquez? No magic breeze for them, nor anyone who painted for the pleasures of royalty or aspirations to universal perfection. They painted everyday with the constipation of desiring super-humanity, as if almost to declare another species unto themselves, while pleasing their commission, their patron merchant or king. Compared to today, try making a painting that would please the likes of a George W. Bush. One would have to sleep on a bed of used hot dogs for a month, bathe in chimichanga sauce, moan low over a toilet bowl, to finally produce a LeRoy Neiman horse-being-gelded masterpiece.
The modern masters felt the freedom enter their toes and flow through their bodies and out their eyeballs like spirit magic. I know it because I “feel” what needs to happen, but a guillotine slams the toe tunnel shut every time. And I paint with an increasing tightening in my forearms. The evening I finish a piece, raise a glass of blackberry wine to it, take it from the easel, hug it to my chest, run to the lake bluff to finally frisbee it off back to god… then I know I will have achieved the satori of modern masterhood. Where will I be? When will it happen? I sure as hell won’t be on the Internet to yarn about it. Probably postmortem, as the wife frisbees my ashes off the lake bluff to Canada.