I’ve made several new ‘moves’ on my painting, taking it off the wall where it’s vertical and placing it on a table where it’s horizontal.
It’s then I realize that Thought can’t be organized around painting in the same way Thought can be organized around writing.
Writing, my nemesis is sound; painting, my nemesis is silence.
Painting, I hope that surfaces are attracted to me and that colors come forward which I can personally co-exist with; yellow, for instance, a color I like, is a color I sneak in. Writing, I don’t want to see anything, I only want to hear something. Writing, I hope the surface is black-and-white, uncolored by anything other than the words that they are, and words are never yellow, words are black-and-white and sink into their surfaces that way.
I’ve organized the painting to be strong, something you or I could step on to get somewhere; but to think I could step on a painting is only a concept, that a painting has steps that could tolerate you or I is actually a case of my imagination going too far: I only want my painting to go from bottom to top and from top to bottom as if I’m walking on a stairwell, so that there’s a sense of both a beginning and an end or an end and a beginning, but I don’t want my painting to be taken literally.
So I start all over on my painting, looking at the surface I’ve made, seeing that it’s flawed but flawed with promise, and then try to listen for what the next move might be. Hearing nothing, I continue painting