The Sea of My Ideas is an Ocean of Possibilities. Not all of them are open to me. I am not a Picasso, or a Matisse, nor a Philip Guston. Yet here I come, revealing myself to myself and to you. I am looking for a revelation of me. I am surprised, and daunted. Surprised, because I have so much to say. Daunted, because this task of "saying" is exceptional, because it is without a roadmap. I must work to walk this path; it is a steep, uphill path. Yesterday's drawing is a good solid step, forward. The drawing shown here feels both simple and complex. It is simple because it is simply me. This drawing secretes my interests; it reveals my psyche; interests and psyche are intently exposed. I believe it is a milestone. This drawing marks a segment achieved on my journey of many years. There is no easy task in front of me. Uphill I go.
Snow comes, I shovel it away. I walk through the path I made. I get the newspaper. It has to be done. The day demands more than art-making. Yes, and I have to eat. I am involved with stuff from the outside of myself. This is important, but let me complain too. There is too much to do, especially this time of year. It is Holiday time, plus it is snow and ice time. I have not had enough art-making time. Still, the ideas keep coming in. I keep rolling along. All kinds of things impinge on my psyche. Yesterday's drawing is very interesting to me. It foreshortens, influenced as I was by the drawings of Jack Kirby, which were shown to me by a friend, a relative of Jack Kirby.
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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