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 ◄ #8,
January 2006
January 20, 2006. Lac Ouaureau.
Very early morning.
However one paints and whatever painting’s place may be in the
contemporary world, the act of painting long ago became my primary
concern.
Night.
In the day, we do the work of the world; and in the night, the
work of the soul.
World work is what keeps
“bread on the table,” not only our bread but also the infrastructure of
civilization that is the bread of all of us—the peace and happiness we
perpetually build against the ever renewing ruin of the world.
Soul work is the deep
knowledge we take to our deaths—and to say those words clouds and fades
their truth.
After midnight, on the way from the studio
back to the cottage…
I first saw it out the studio window by the sink, the moon just
past the full rising slowly silently through bare branches of the winter
forest…
January 21, 2006. Lac Ouaureau.
Morning.
Still haunted by the
"ineradicable," try again not with red oxide but with quinacridone
crimson, the darkened blackened transparent red of old alizarine brought
up to new and permanent to last forever--and haunted by the blackening
shadow of death at the core, and by the bleeding stain semen near the
center... Make
#8, January 2006
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