#13, July 2005
A Doric Column

July 25, 2005. Lac Ouaureau, noon.
Hearing, on the far away Montreal “Beethoven Effect” fuzzy FM station, those great sweeping waves of Romantic feeling that are only the technique of making great sweeping waves… of fake. Sure, I can do it too, but the trouble is there’s not the quiddity (what a wimpy word), not the flat fact of the mass of blood and flesh. No, there’s only a noise that when it sweeps you up, don’t look down because there’s no ground there.

Pressure, pressure. Don’t just squeal, make it tough.

Keep on cleaning out the studio, clearing the wall of all the paintings faced to the walls of the workspace. Make a larger, echoing room, the fullness of space of the cathedral of the body…

Like when waking in the early morning, walking out on the deck hanging in the trees above the lake, the sun slanting through the leaves to caress the nude flesh… I Forest, I Pan, I Me.

Siegfried’s “Forest Murmurs”… nude this morning high in the forest is beyond any sound music can make. But noon-time is not the time for this. Call back morning now.
 

July 25, 2005. Lac Ouaureau, afternoon
Paint #13, July 2005. Self portrait.
My heart is not shown. It is throbbing within, pounding the life blood
all through all of this always through all its time.
 

July 26, 2005. Lac Ouaureau, morning.
#13, July 2005 becomes a Doric column.

The Doric Order,
from Palladio

The Doric Order
from Fred

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