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Studio notes at the time of finishing the
last of the February 2005 paintings:
March 4, 2005. Oakland,
afternoon
You know, you’re not going to make any money out of my stuff.
At least not for the next hundred years, and then only if people then
procreate, fuck and die as I have done now.
March 5, 2005. Oakland,
afternoon.
Walking across 41st Street where it meets Piedmont
Avenue, I saw a young woman leading her parents across the street.
She was holding her small, frail father’s arm and assuring him he
could walk the thirty feet. She reminded him of a family friend who
went for a walk each day, and how healthy the exercise was. I saw her
father’s virile youth when he begat her, and the strong young father
who once led his little girl by the hand across the street.
“Procreate”… the curse laid on us
by life, the curse of the pain of love because everything dies.
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#1, February 2005.
Originating text:
I have no church nor temple
to hire me to show forth the glory of its god.
I learned this is the church/temple.
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#2, February 2005.
Originating text:
I have no prince for
patron
to decorate his palace.
I learned I am the prince,
my body is the palace,
this is the mural. |
#3, February 2005
Originating text:
I have no museum to purchase my work
for masterpiece for social improvement.
I learned this is my work.
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#4, February 2005
Originating text:
I have only always
day by day
on ageing paper the markings of my life.
I learned these are the marks.
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#5, February 2005
Originating text:
I have no new forms to bedazzle
the wonderment of the world;
I have only old forms old age all time
and tender care for the dying. I made the care.
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