Self-ridicule should be treasured. This occurred yesterday, to me... You can see it my self-ridicule in my silly journey through three states of Drawing 09·16·2021. None of them is perfect. None of them is worthy of full blown exhibition. I show them as self-ridicule. What was I thinking?
After the drawing I had made on the previous day (see it in this blog's previous post), I wanted to return to simple and direct. I deluded myself by working hard with on Drawing 09·16·2021. Arguably, state 3 is the best of the three. Who cares? Not me! Except, I do believe, as I always convince myself to believe, this failure is a lesson learned. I see. I know I went wrong. Today is a new day; I will be back at it again.
Yesterday's state 6 of "Find a Man" is better than state 5. This does embolden my ego, damaged by the ridiculous, wayward journey I experienced with Drawing 09·16·2021.
Easier than usual is seeing yesterday's drawing as study for yesterday's painting. Miracle it is that never two days, never too actions, are the same. Now is now! This is the only way to decipher my veiled constancy of self. Calling this constancy is not absolutely correct. I do believe I am built to last. There is stuff in me that is constant. Origination and inception are not excluded from renewal and self-surprise.
It does not really look like mayhem; perhaps upheaval is a better word to describe that which I feel. The stuff I am producing has order, but each surprises me like a riot in my mind. It is better for me to approach without intent than to plan and to organize prior to execution. The odd idea here is the precision of attack is deceptive. This painting, and these drawings, look organized, premeditated. They are not! When murder is committed the question is asked, is it one of passion or one calculated and preplanned. Well, my work has become the former, not the latter. The problem with writing this is the problem of being. I am stuck with who I am, so no matter how much effort I make to remain open to the chaos of discovery, behold the stuff I produce is about me. Personal psyche, ego, id, cannot be escaped! According to Sigmund Freud, the super-ego is the critical and moralizing portion of psyche that can stop one from doing certain things one wishes to do. I am trying to subjugate my super-ego! Of course, my self-analysis is inaccurately Freudian, but I hope I get across my point. I am trying to find my mythological origins, as abstractly disorganized as they are. I am seeking to find images which sing the border between chaos and order, between living and death.
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