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<table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="12"> <tr> <td><font color="#FFFFFF"> <h3> September 4, 2010</h3> <p> Saturday we always sell something at the gallery. Dante sold a few tables and some benches. No paintings, however.</p> <p> Yesterday the Belinda painting was picked up. I hope they like it. Certainly looks like her.</p> <p> I also made new text pieces which came out quite well. And started on the Darwin, as well as another Miles Davis playing his horn. Actually I'm listening to him as I write. </p> <p> I admire Miles. He even looks like the genius that he is. I don't know if geniuses are absolutely required to appear as geniuses, but Miles certainly did.</p> <p> I wonder if genius, as it unfolds, tends to take over the entire person and mold his or her features to its liking. </p> <p> I don't know. I think someone might be a genius but not look like one, and others may superficially or stereotypically seem like a genius but be far indeed from one in reality. </p> <p> Without a certain abnormally high quality of work no one can be a genius. You can't just spin yarns and impress a circle of friends and be a genius. This is a sad spectacle, very short-lived, and extremely small in scope. </p> <p> A genius stamps his person globally and universally. He's not a local hero. Nor a period piece.</p> <p> Returning to the question of what drives and motivates a genuine artist I would have to conclude that it is something beyond our horizon of understanding. </p> <p> What lures a genius into action is often just an illusion. A person may take up art for all the wrong reasons, but after all those illusions are shattered what is it that remains? What keeps him doing his thing? </p> <p> The usual suspects, fame, wealth, and sexual gratification, may get him started on his quest, but he leaves them behind and doggedly plods on. I don't think he really has a good explanation for his behavior. But this doesn't stop him.</p> <p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 14px">______________________</span></p> <h3> September 3, 2010<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 12px"> I'm still thinking about that final remark on yesterday's entry.</span></h3> <p> Is it true that making art is actually the best passion of all?</p> <p> No. No, it just isn't so.</p> <p> It really doesn't come down to making either good, bad or even great art. </p> <p> Making anything is harder than doing nothing. And making the most sublime masterpiece, and even getting handsomely rewarded for it, is no guarantee of happiness. Don't buy into that. </p> <p> Even if your art made you rich and famous and allowed you to obtain a series of beautiful lovers, this wouldn't solve the mystery of creation. </p> <p> An artist's motivation is difficult to completely elucidate. What drives him? </p> <p> It almost seems automatic, like an animal knowing when to migrate. </p> <p> But it's not some blind urge. It's a conscious act that becomes clearer over time. </p> <p> However, this clarity is like shining a light into a vast cavern. The more you see, the more there is to see. </p> <p> An artist is willing to use himself up, to burn like a torch in the night, to give the world a better chance of knowing itself. </p> <h3> ________________</h3> <h3> September 2, 2010</h3> <p> I scheduled an appointment for one more root canal. I have a tooth ache, and it's got to be taken care of. It's strange how long I can put things off, and live with a dull pain. In this case it's been around eight years. Doctors shake their head when I mention it.</p> <p> But I've tried to live like they did for tens of thousands of years, before all this technology. I guess maybe it wasn't always such a pleasant existence for our ancestors. </p> <p> I picked up my new screens and it didn't even cost that much. $108, to wash and burn four pieces, two of which were on the large side. But you have to include time and effort. I scan a photo or make something from scratch in Photoshop and then print out a transparency on my massive Canon wide-format. </p> <p> I've already printed the musician portrait and it came out really well.</p> <p> It's taken me three years to master this process. Everything worth doing always takes too long to achieve. But maybe that's the point. </p> <p> Someone said that painters are the artists who are most in love with their work. </p> <p> That's a pretty debatable remark.</p> <p> I always assumed that musicians love their music more than painters love their painting. But maybe that's not the case.</p> <p> After having known many musicians over my lifetime I was surprised to see how little they enjoyed what they did best. They actually seem to like it less than I liked the often hard work of painting. They never bothered to practice. They only played for money. They never discussed or theorized about music. The older, professional musicians, I mean. </p> <p> Witnessing their attitude made me feel less guilty about my own feelings about making art. It's often a frustrating strain and I still have a little dread before starting on a new piece. </p> <p> But whether it's music, poetry, prose, painting, or sculpture, I think everything depends on the artist's way of going about it. With the wrong vision, art is hell. With the best conceptual approach, making art is the finest activity on earth.</p> <h3> _____________________</h3> <h3> September 1, 2010</h3> <p> It's a shame that a person will feel depressed and subdued here in Los Angeles on a day like today. It's bright, mild, and everything looks clean and attractive in the strong California light.</p> <p> Yet there are many who for reasons of their own can't enjoy it. They're at odds with their environment, and with themselves.</p> <p> Everyone can't be happy at the same time.</p> <p> I completed a painting from start to finish and took it to the gallery. I'm waiting for a woman to pick it up. </p> <p> Also, four new silkscreens have been burned and are ready for me at the business downtown, halfway between the studio and the gallery. I hope they don't cost much. A screen of Darwin, looking like an ancient Greek thinker. Also one of Belinda Carlisle, the singer, a commission for a friend. And two new text pieces. </p> <p> A little more activity. Just a little. </p> <p> "I've worked all day yesterday and then just as much today. I finished four of them, now I have to ship them to New York," said Jackie. "You like them, don't you?"</p> <p> "They look great."</p> <p> "Too much work for too little money. I'm going to have to do something about it. This can't go on. I never have a nickel to spend. I can't take it."</p> <p> "You might have to make some adjustments."</p> <p> "Like what? Tell me, oh, wise one."</p> <p> "You've spent ten years fanatically focused on one thing, but this keeps you from so many other opportunities."</p> <p> "If you mean I should stop painting, you can forget it. I'll never do that."</p> <p> "Then you'll have to put up with never having any money."</p> <p> "Then I will."</p> <p> "But you'll just keep raging and drive everyone nuts. Including yourself."</p> <p> "They can leave. They already have."</p> <p> "Suit yourself."</p> <p> "Is that it? That's your solution for me? Not very impressive."</p> <p> Man, to be born an artist is a strange fate. One long furious argument with life. With your life, and the world. And anyone within earshot.</p> <h3> ___________________</h3> <h3> August 31, 2010</h3> <p> Still tinkering with the website. Dante and Anthony also like to keep refining it, adding and subtracting things. </p> <p> Anthony is happy just managing his other businesses, and checks in now and then. He has a collection of my pieces, and has had for the longest time.</p> <p> "I now have this new apartment, and plenty of blank walls," he said yesterday. He has a downtown penthouse. Downtown is very hot and happening. I can't wait to have some more money to toss around. </p> <p> "Well, there's plenty of art available at Cloud Noir."</p> <p> "How about some monsters? Did you go through that phase as a kid? Movie monsters."</p> <p> "I sure did. The werewolf, Frankenstein, Dracula, the creature from the black lagoon. Godzilla."</p> <p> "Why not make a series of them for me? I'll even pay for the silkscreens."</p> <p> "Yeah, one wouldn't mean that much, but a series might be interesting. I've thought about doing that for a long time. Try to find some photos you like."</p> <p> "Where can I do that?"</p> <p> "Lately the web is better than ever, but there's also the library and a few stores around LA that carry old magazines and books about film."</p> <p> "Then what? Do I have get them blown up?"</p> <p> "No, leave that to me."</p> <p> Monsters. Hm. I can't say that monsters are beautiful. But neither are they exactly funny. </p> <p> A real life monster probably wouldn't be a good candidate for a painting. But film monsters are already a work of art. It'd be like making a painting of a marble statue. Or a gargoyle from a Gothic cathedral. </p> <p> Artists have always had a sneaking fondness for the grotesque. As a foil perhaps to a beautiful woman. Dragons, fauns, satyrs, devils, mythical beasts.</p> <p> It's easier to draw something ugly than create something beautiful, but it takes a real knack for the beautiful to achieve something fantastically ugly. </p> <p> When he was a young student Michelangelo won a contest on who could draw the ugliest face. Leonardo's notebooks are filled with hideously deformed creatures. </p> <p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 14px">__________________</span></p> <p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 14px">August 30, 2010</span></p> <p> On Sunday I often find myself soaking in my old cast iron bathtub, ruminating. Trying to see through the impenetrable jungle of confusion.</p> <p> What do I want, and how am I to get it?</p> <p> I started off today changing the website. I got rid of many pieces that were just taking up space. Why are they shown in the first place? Am I naively proud of them? Get over it.</p> <p> I don't want to make them again. I only become upset when someone wants another version of something that was done once, or even more than once. </p> <p> "It's a question of personality," I said to a guy from Chicago. He's bought and sold a lot of mine in the past.</p> <p> " . . . personality . . . " He said slowly. It probably makes no sense to him. How can he enjoy working with artists? </p> <p> Well, an artist is a human being who actualizes his personality in his work. He's not like a man who sells insurance, or produces car batteries. </p> <p> He has a special temperament. It doesn't mean he is moody, or flighty, or a flake. </p> <p> He can take abuse, rejection, poverty, isolation and other so to speak deprivations without squawking or throwing a fit. But his personality, his complicated temperament, can't be ignored. </p> <p> When my personality is thwarted I can't do anything. I won't budge. I won't get out of bed. </p> <p> I don't care about being broke or living in a rough studio. But I care about not being able to express my changing, growing, personality. It's the whole point of my existence. </p> <p> I make things that are more than what they are. They have a secondary halo of meaning surrounding them. </p> <p> A work of art is a layered reality. It has multiple planes of meaning that can't be logically and cleanly separated. </p> <p> A scientific brain dissects objects. An artistic brain merges truths. </p> <p> Art points beyond itself, and eludes our facile, mindless grasp. </p> <p> By 2011 the website will only have available pieces presented. Once they sell, they'll be removed. And a new one will go up. </p> <p> I should have done this from the beginning, but I was waiting for the perfect moment. That moment has arrived. </p> <p> Everything takes ten times longer for me than it does for other more naturally gifted people. Is there anything to be said for such a troubling fact? </p> <p> Maybe, but it won't be known for many years. For now it seems like a curse, and a source of ridicule. </p> <h3> ___________________</h3> <h3> August 29, 2010</h3> <p> I sold one more small painting on Saturday.</p> <p> On Sunday we close the gallery. </p> <p> I've been thinking about making some changes. Meeting the public once again guides me in a new direction.</p> <p> For now, small pieces, and to concentrate heavily on the text art. This is what people have been responding to. This is a good sign.</p> <p> The writing is what is my own. The Hollywood star stuff is too much Warhol. Even the writing has to be more than it has been. In order to make it wholly mine.</p> <p> When the word pieces are created on a specially prepared textured ground this is best of all. </p> <p> Text and textures: the road to follow. To build a way through the land and sea and mountains and valleys of the unknown. </p> <p> Some people have been writing and asking about pieces to resell. </p> <p> Again, I have to devise a new way to accomplish this. I'm at the point where I've tried so many different things, and rejected just as many. Or accepted them temporarily, only to soon find out their flaws.</p> <p> What once worked previously, now is a dead end. </p> <p> What was helpful yesterday, is a hindrance today. </p> <p> I've discovered what is absolutely under my control, what is partially under my control, and partially out of my control, and what is absolutely out of my control. Four different areas. Four important, distinct areas. </p> <p> Knowing this gives me an edge. A useful advantage. </p> <p> ___________________</p> <h3> August 28, 2010</h3> <p> It was a good Saturday at the gallery. Dante took an order for a large dining table. </p> <p> "I love this piece. Do you send them to Europe?" A woman asked.</p> <p> "Where do you live?"</p> <p> "Paris. I'm leaving tonight. I don't have much. I like them all, but this one really speaks to me."</p> <p> "It's $200," I said looking at the price tag. It was a smallish text piece. "How much do you have?"</p> <p> She counted it. "$122."</p> <p> "I can have it put it in a cardboard box. You could take it on the plane."</p> <p> Gregory, a Russian, has a mail box and shipping store only two blocks away. I drove over there and brought the piece inside.</p> <p> Another man read the painting. "That sounds like Nabokov."</p> <p> "No, it's mine. But I love Russian authors. Not particularly Nabokov, though."</p> <p> "I'm Russian. Who then? I can't get through Tolstoy."</p> <p> "Tolstoy is great, as far as I'm concerned. Also Dostoyevsky, Gogol, Turgenev, Chekov, Solzhenitsyn . . . "</p> <p> "Dostoyevsky was a bipolar madman. Chekov, you know what he was? A doctor."</p> <p> "Well, doctors can become good writers. Chekov certainly was."</p> <p> Gregory made a box for me on the spot, and I rushed back to the store. </p> <p> She looked it over. </p> <p> "Does it have a handle?"</p> <p> I rushed back to the store once again, and Gregory made a twine handle.</p> <p> I talked with the woman for a while as she waited for her ride.</p> <p> She's a tv personality in France, and originally came from Iran. </p> <p> We spent a good twenty minutes on raging about that evil government that is presently in power. She's very outspoken and uses her program to criticize the atrocious regime. </p> <p> She's even more passionately against it than I am, if that's possible. </p> <p> The state of the world is a very troubling thing. It can get me worked into a lather. </p> <h3> ______________</h3> <h3> August 27, 2010</h3> <p> We are advised at a certain age to speak about romantic love only in an abstract, impersonal way. As if nothing could be further from one's present life. It's not a bad style. It makes sense.</p> <p> People come into the gallery and sometimes can be pretty blunt about my text pieces, in particular.</p> <p> "What's the story on these?"</p> <p> I don't know exactly how to answer them. I have several versions. Short replies, or more extended narratives. Depending on how I feel, and who's asking. </p> <p> I never say the same thing, just as I never paint the same piece twice. </p> <p> Even if it's the same silkscreen. I enjoy changing, adjusting, altering, modifying, and making it always as new as I can. </p> <p> I explained my attitude yesterday to a woman.</p> <p> "The first time I make a painting it's a thrilling rush. But a little unfinished, and raw. The second version is an improvement, but less exciting to make. By the third attempt it's overdone and boring. Three paintings: three moments of development. Early, High, Late. Anything more is just a combination of these basic phases."</p> <p> But they want to know about the emotional background. So I converse about life, about general rules of feeling, which are not the same for everyone.</p> <p> I wonder what they're thinking as I talk in a detached, clinical manner. I notice a faraway look in their eyes, as if they're considering someone absent. Maybe in their past, or maybe someone still causing them heartache.</p> <p> Speaking of heartache these lines leaped into my mind the second I awoke this morning.</p> <p> Later on I analyzed it, and can't decide whether or not it'd make a good painting.</p> <p> It goes something like this:</p> <p> like two vases</p> <p> crashing together</p> <p> they broke</p> <p> each other's </p> <p> heart</p> <p> Have I experienced such a phenomenon? I don't really know.</p> <p> Call it: simultaneous, mutual heartbreak. </p> <p> It must exist. It must be tragic. </p> <h3> ______________ </h3> <h3> August 26, 2010</h3> <p> A couple of young models just left the gallery. One was from Somalia. I like Somalian women. I once had a friend and she told me all about the culture.</p> <p> This new woman was a blend of Swedish and Somalian.</p> <p> "I grew up in Stockholm. The Swedish are very liberal, but the Somalians are about as conservative as they come," she said. She seemed more Scandinavian in attitude. </p> <p> Both women loved the text pieces. About women. About a woman. I guess it's more obvious than I realize.</p> <p> "Who is she?"</p> <p> "A combination of women," I said.</p> <p> "Of many women," Dante chimed in.</p> <p> "Well, of a few. They blend into a single muse."</p> <p> I'm a little uncomfortable writing romantically about women, seeing how I'm no longer a young man. But what if I describe things that took place 20, 30, 40, or even 50 years ago? Isn't that acceptable?</p> <p> Besides, what else is better? One time I said to someone that I feel odd about loving women so much. </p> <p> "Well, it's better than loving cars, or money," she answered.</p> <p> Yeah, I'm inspired by beautiful women. So what? Take me out and hang me from the highest tree. </p> <p> The world might be a better place if there were more men who intelligently, ceaselessly, in a single-minded creative way, loved women as much as I do. </p> <p> Love transforms everything it touches. It has the power to unveil hidden beauty. </p> <p> Without love the world is hideous, grotesque, an abomination. A vast nightmare crammed with monsters. </p> <p> The same situation, the identical circumstances, but graced with love, is paradise. </p> <h3> ___________________</h3> <h3> August 25, 2010</h3> <p> Hate answering the phone lately. Always bill collectors. I've already told them to wait until I sell the building. Very persistent. </p> <p> They even try to fool me by having a woman with an appealing voice ask "Patrick?.......Patrick?" As if I'm supposed to lunge for the receiver when I hear that. </p> <p> I recall reading about Rembrandt going bankrupt. They ended up carting all of his beloved possessions out of his house and selling them at auction. </p> <p> And he was famous. But like all artists who are especially gifted throughout their entire lives, he was careless with money. </p> <p> And there are more of them. Van Gogh is of course the most notable example. But also Modigliani, Soutine, Gauguin, Utrillo, Hals, Pollock, Pascin, Caravaggio, and many others.</p> <p> "Are there any female painters that died poor?" Jackie asked.</p> <p> "I'm sure there are. But I don't know of any offhand."</p> <p> "Maybe I'll be the first."</p> <p> "So many unknown painters died without a penny to their name, but it takes more than poverty to become well-known."</p> <p> "Except for Warhol and Picasso, if you were to ask any business person they'd say every artist dies poor."</p> <p> "But they'd be wrong about that. A mediocre artist can amass a lot of money, but that doesn't mean his art is any good. More than likely success in art is no different than any other kind of success. It has to do with catering to the tastes of the time."</p> <p> Anyway, I was reading something today and I saw the word "riveting." It's a common way of describing something as very fascinating and compelling. He was a riveting talker. It's a riveting book. And so forth.</p> <p> But I wonder how many people today have actually riveted something. I don't mean using rivets on clothing, which is still done. I mean industrial riveting. Like the kind seen on a huge boiler or battleship. A large, very heavy iron object. Where two thick plates are riveted together.</p> <p> I once riveted a large construction piece. Maybe it was a large hopper. A massive bin. I can't remember.</p> <p> I worked with an old blacksmith. He fired up a forge and heated a two-inch rivet red hot. Then he quickly placed it in the hole between the sheets of iron. The rivet had a square head on one side, and that was the side I held against the plate. I pushed as hard as I could with a sledge hammer while the blacksmith hammered the other side with another sledge. </p> <p> It was hard work. Hot and dusty, and the rivet jolted me every time the old blacksmith whacked it. Eventually the other side was pressed tightly against the steel. The head was spread out and beaten into a rounded, secure look. </p> <p> One day of this work was enough for me. They don't use rivets as much these days. I can see why. </p> <p> _______________</p> <h3> August 24, 2010</h3> <p> Today is better than yesterday. How can it be otherwise? </p> <p> We figured out the new transportation system. I'll borrow Dante's car, which she doesn't really need, until I buy a cheap used car.</p> <p> "I think I'll just make small pieces for a while. They're about the only ones that're selling these days."</p> <p> "That's true. We can't give away the big ones for next to nothing."</p> <p> "Well, we could, but then we can't replace them. This way I won't need a pickup. I can let Jackie pick up lumber, and deliver any large pieces. We even could use Steve."</p> <p> Steve's a new find. A really soft-spoken, hard-working, reliable guy from Cameroon. It's a pleasure to find such people in LA. I always give credit to Dante who has a keen eye for hiring the right person. Steve loads up the furniture and makes deliveries. People are equally impressed with him and call us back and say so. </p> <p> He also has an easy, very good-natured laugh. A rare bird. Especially in this increasingly moody town. </p> <p> The new training gym opened up and Yo's already using it, and happy with the move. We were in the old location for nearly 15 years, but this present place is only a block away. Jose, the general handy-man, did a sensational job. It has a sink, white walls, and track lighting. And to think that the landlord wanted to tear down the small building and haul it away. </p> <p> "It's worth $700 a month now. That's what we could rent it for, and it's $700 less than we would have had to pay for the old place."</p> <p> The old landlords were in a rush to kick Yo out of the old joint, but now they can't rent it. Well, that's what happens. </p> <p> We were excellent tenants, and now we have a new place. </p> <p> My real estate agents, after a flurry of phone calls from me, said, don't worry, Patrick, we will sell your building. </p> <p> It would make a big difference at this point. </p> <p> I have braced myself for just such a turn of events. When everything suddenly goes south, when the gravy train crashes, when my paintings just gather dust, when my formerly robust health begins to wane . . . I have steeled myself in the ancient Stoic way. I know in my heart of hearts, in my growing soul-self, that such things are essentially unimportant. Not worth losing my composure over. Not in the least.</p> <p> _______________</p> <h3> August 23, 2010</h3> <p> "They're still out of the varnish," Jackie said.</p> <p> "Well, buy another brand. Even if it doesn't work as well, it's time to paint."</p> <p> "No shit. My friend is waiting for hers. And I haven't even begun."</p> <p> "I have plenty of my own problems. Today I opened my back door, and my truck was gone."</p> <p> "Somebody stole it?"</p> <p> "No. Repossessed."</p> <p> "How do you know?"</p> <p> "I called them. I have to make four payments to get it back. But I don't have the cash. I'm sick of it anyway. Between us we only really need one pickup. Then I might buy a clunker just to get me to the gallery and back."</p> <p> There're good days and bad days. But they aren't always evenly split. Lately its been more bad than good. </p> <p> "It's a weird time," I said to Jackie later on, as we drove to the supermarket.</p> <p> "It's like a third world country. The water gets turned off in the studio because a pipe broke down the street. They won't reconnect my phone. They said I'm a bad customer. Take your business somewhere else, they told me."</p> <p> "Yeah, I've never seen it like this. It's merciless. And the worst of all for me is that I can't even get anxious about it. I used to be so anxious, and race around solving things as fast as they appeared. But I'm no longer inclined to. It's been too many years of money problems. There was a brief period when I did okay, but 50 years of struggling is taking its toll."</p> <p> "What about me? I won't even make it to your age at this rate. I busted my shoulder, and my hip, and I don't have enough for gas, or even food tonight. You were lucky. I wouldn't mind being your age and having done what you've done."</p> <p> "I finally quit straining. I turned it over to God. Here, it's in your court! Let me know what to do. I'm sick of taking charge of myself. Its never gotten me anywhere. From now on its God's problem. He hasn't been that great a partner. I've had to do the lion's share of sweat and toil. If God was a business partner I would have shaken hands and said goodbye long ago."</p> <p> Oh, I don't really mean that. There's other ways of seeing it.</p> <p> Maybe God was just waiting until I had enough faith in him to let him have the controls. Well, I have a heap of faith now. </p> <p> Let's see how it all turns out. How it ends. It can't be that much longer. </p> <p> I've always loved experimenting. This will be another one.</p> <h3> ________________</h3> <h3> August 22, 2010</h3> <p> "They were out of our polyurethane," Jackie said.</p> <p> "Well, that's a drag."</p> <p> "I'll buy some on Monday."</p> <p> That means a day goes by when I don't do much. Another delay. So many of them during this dreadful stretch.</p> <p> I called my brother. He's an artist, and works at a museum.</p> <p> "I was lucky to survive that last cut. They let go half the staff."</p> <p> "Yeah, you were."</p> <p> "I thought it over. If I was let go I'd be exactly where I was 35 years ago when I came to this town. Broke, and no job. It doesn't seem like much of a life. How could I end up like this? I'd have to hassle with unemployment checks. Not what I want to do."</p> <p> "I never have had a single unemployment check. I don't even know what it takes. I'm just glad I never had to dish one out."</p> <p> "They let this one woman go, after a long time working here. She couldn't handle it. She went and sat in her car in the parking lot. Wouldn't drive away. Everyone had to go out and talk with her, and tell her it was going to be all right. Man."</p> <p> "Yeah, I can't remember when it was worse. I feel like a guy crawling through the desert, barely making it, and imagining that water is right up ahead. But it's a mirage."</p> <p> "I had to call the cops on this one guy last night. I was watching him on the monitor loitering outside. Checking out the dumpster, spreading his cardboard on the ground . . . "</p> <p> "Just looking for a place to spend the night."</p> <p> "He was. He probably figured he had it made. Secluded, with a nice fountain nearby where he could wash up. The other guard wanted me to go out and confront him. No thanks. I don't need that. He looked big. And didn't have much to lose. So the cops showed up and took him away in cuffs."</p> <p> "It's a shame, really. People don't know what to do. He was no doubt homeless."</p> <p> "Right. When I saw his face I felt sorry for him. Apparently he'd just gotten out of prison. The cops knew him."</p> <p> "I don't think he wanted to go back."</p> <p> "No. He was just tasting his freedom." </p> <h3> ________________</h3> <h3> August 21, 2010</h3> <p> Dante handed me a check.</p> <p> "What's this for?"</p> <p> "We sold one this morning." She described the painting.</p> <p> "Oh, that's a good one. I'm surprised it sat here for so long."</p> <p> It wasn't that long. Only about two months. I have to replace a few next week. </p> <p> We also sold several pieces of furniture. </p> <p> "Saturday is our best day."</p> <p> "Saturday is our only day."</p> <p> "Well, there's Saturday, and then the rest of the week. Together they make two parts."</p> <p> Jackie is at the studio. She just returned from Home Depot.</p> <p> "That is a nightmare. My truck is loaded. The sheets of Styrofoam are flapping around as I drive down the freeway. The bucket of plaster weighs a ton. 65 pounds. Like a small child."</p> <p> "Like a small old woman. It's hard to handle."</p> <p> A five gallon bucket of joint compound weights a bit more than the rocks concentration camp victims in Mauthausen were forced to carry every day until they dropped, and were murdered on the spot. </p> <p> They were worked to death. 55 pound rocks. Think of that sometime. To be starving, sick, barely clothed and then at gunpoint lug heavy rocks from a quarry for twelve hours, or be immediately killed.</p> <p> Could you do it? For how long? </p> <p> Would it get easier if you became accustomed to it? Maybe if you were in great health. But not under the circumstances.</p> <p> What kind of hell is reserved for Nazi guards in the next world?</p> <p> I almost can believe in hell before I can believe in heaven. But who runs hell? </p> <p> There would have to be a clear and impenetrable separation between slaughtered innocents and sadistic homicidal maniacs.</p> <p> There must be two distinct locations. Two very different planets. Very different spheres. Hell would have to be infinitely more secure than any maximum penitentiary. The tortured victims must be absolutely assured of their perfect and continuing safety. </p> <p> I get swept up in these speculations.</p> <p> It happens all the time. </p> <p> ______________________</p> <h3> August 20, 2010</h3> <p> I just about finished three large pieces today. They turned out fine. They'll be done by tomorrow morning, and I'll drop them off Sunday. </p> <p> Then I bought supplies. </p> <p> Paint, canvas, plaster. So expensive. How can I survive at this ruinous practice? It's not getting easier with time.</p> <p> I notice my pieces for sale lately in the so-called secondary markets. Auctions, for example. </p> <p> There're plenty out there floating around. I'm saddened by the fact that so many were so rushed, and imperfect.</p> <p> I should have done better. The world stood in my way. But not as much as I stood in my way. </p> <p> Boy, talk about some clunkers. I wonder what's the worst piece I've ever made? It's probably buried in a landfill. I hope so. </p> <p> I think a person can take himself and his work too seriously. It's possible to be too conscientious. The work then gives off a certain stiffness. Due to fear. </p> <p> Jackie takes herself very seriously. And it's wrecking her life. </p> <p> What have I proved? What have I learned? </p> <p> What are my few square inches woven into the stupendously huge tapestry of life? </p> <p> I've noticed one thing. I've been in love several times. It lasts about ten years at a stretch. I can't feel anything more, any longer than that. Unless it's extraordinarily intense. Then it could go on in some form for another decade. And that is the upper limit for me. </p> <p> But ten years is standard. An iron-clad law. For this painter and writer. </p> <p> A fitful, capricious, restless, superficial person may only love for a brief period. Say a year or two. </p> <p> On the other hand, a great lover may extend the emotional involvement for thirty or forty years, even until death. </p> <p> But each is made differently. It's best to find out who you are and live accordingly.</p> <p> When love is over, it's like a cremated body. Nothing is left but memories, and worthlessness. </p> <p> A human life in the 21st Century might be most reasonably broken down into decades. In earlier times it was maybe in seven year fragments, or five year. Even in ten years stretches but not many of them. </p> <p> I see a lifetime as a 100 year project. Too many people wear out and collapse before then. But it won't be that way in the future. </p> <p> A decimal attitude towards life is intelligent. </p> <p> Not quite as fiercely hot today.</p> <p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 14px">_________________</span></p> <h3> August 19, 2010</h3> <p> "I'm really down. I think I may need to talk to someone. Someone besides a friend. Someone professional," said Jackie.</p> <p> "Okay, maybe that'll help."</p> <p> "Hannah said she knows a psychologist, or psychiatrist, who's really cheap. Maybe I'll call her."</p> <p> "Did you make the sale today?"</p> <p> "Yeah, after driving all the way to Santa Monica. I just got home. It's boiling in my apartment. I don't know how much longer I can go on this way."</p> <p> "Well, if it' any consolation everyone is suffering. It's not like you're being singled out."</p> <p> "I know that. But, Patrick, year after year agonizing over bills, fending off creditors, I think I'm going crazy. I don't want to do anything I'll regret. Maybe a professional would be good. After all we're professionals. If someone needs a painting, they come to us. We've done this forever and know how to do it right. Why wouldn't a professional shrink be the same? Talking to you is great, but I need an outside opinion."</p> <p> This sort of conversation can go on for hours. I mean really hours. No exaggeration. </p> <p> And it seems like we go round in circles. Different circles. Bigger circles. Irregular circles. But still we tend to end up close to where we started.</p> <p> Jackie loves painting, but hates how it doesn't eliminate the other problems that come crowding in. </p> <p> She figures if she focuses like a laser on painting everything else will be blocked out. </p> <p> But it isn't. Other issues stalk her like a pack of wolves. And they seem distorted and all out of proportion. Especially late at night when she can't sleep. </p> <p> Not many people are made to be utterly single-minded. They secretly nourish other dreams. </p> <p> "I can give her the number of this one woman. She charges $30 an hour. But she may give Jackie a break on the price," Hannah said.</p> <p> Jackie says seeing a professional analyst is so foreign to her. Almost against her religion. But she's desperate.</p> <p> I understand where she's coming from. Irish Catholics have their own way of dealing with their turmoil. It looks very primitive to other cultures. </p> <p> I'm the same way. I've always wrestled in silence with my complicated nature. Without medicine, or professionals. </p> <p> Hemingway said his shrink was his Remington typewriter. Of course, he blew his brains out. Doesn't Remington also make guns? I guess a shotgun blast is the ultimate therapist. </p> <p> But writing does help order my whirling universe. </p> <p> Just as painting is salvation for Jackie.</p> <p> But too much focus on anything makes you an easy prey.</p> <h3> _______________</h3> <h3> August 18, 2010</h3> <p> I made three large prepared canvases this morning. Tomorrow I'll paint a few musicians for the cafe in Pasadena. I haven't concentrated on the musicians lately, but they'll be good simply because the other pieces are better.</p> <p> Jimi Hendrix, Ray Charles, and Santana. I'll make them using some new techniques. </p> <p> Jackie likes musician paintings even more than I do. They're about all she paints. Her former boyfriend was a New York musician.</p> <p> She even was in a band when she lived there. Brides of Christ. Amusing name. I think Christ may have been a little indignant toward his wives if they were anything like Jackie in those days. </p> <p> Still hot as hell. We need a small fridge at the gallery. I could use a cold drink. </p> <p> Time for some white wine tonight. It's been so cool all summer that I've only bought red wine. </p> <p> I have a hard time imagining a painter or a poet who doesn't like wine. There are such people, and no doubt some of them produce good work.</p> <p> But they'd create even better work if they had a deep feeling for wine. </p> <p> Ice-cold white wine, blue cheese, mild cheddar, water crackers, a tomato, a scoop of bean salad, and two small bolillos make a fine dinner.</p> <p> I saunter home after work, set a nice table, flick on the tv, and have a civilized, bohemian, relaxing meal. </p> <p> I try to put everything necessary on the table so I don't have to get up again. It's surprising how rare that is. Not as if there're that many things to handle. But maybe because my hunger gets in the way. Rushing always leads to mistakes.</p> <p> I took Jackie out the other night, but the cheap Mexican restaurants in my area are not that cheap anymore. Even if their prices have remained the same. When you're broke everything is too much. She seems to understand. I hope she does. I think those days are over. </p> <p> Lydia called and wondered where her paintings were. I made three for her, but I sent her photos of five. She may have figured that I was shipping all of them. I used to do things like that. Again, it's a matter of money.</p> <p> But maybe lack of money stimulates more intelligent behavior. </p> <p> I told Lydia to choose three. She did. The ones she paid for.</p> <p> It may have just been my imagination but I thought I detected a note of surprise in her voice. It's not that I love her any less. Maybe I just love myself a little more. </p> <p> Is that how it works?</p> <h3> _______________</h3> <h3> August 17, 2010</h3> <p> The ancient mathematician and scientist Archimedes apparently was very busy with his problem-solving when an invading soldier tried to interrupt him. He was then slain, still thinking of his diagrams. His last words were "don't disturb my circles." Now that's impressive. </p> <p> To have so little thought for saving your own carcass. The way a great person should die. Life and death are nothing compared to the pursuit of truth. </p> <p> If everything in a person's life is in its place, and has always been so, in a state of immaculate order, that person is no artist. And probably not much of a scientist.</p> <p> A sculptor can't worry where the chips are going to fly. Nor should he be anxious about his finances. </p> <p> Hard, skillful work finds a patron. Worry doesn't add a penny to a bank account. </p> <p> God, it's suddenly hot. The fans are going. </p> <p> Just sold two pieces, one big, and one small. Both text paintings. I should just accept it: I am a writer on canvas. This is what I do best. If I ever obtain a bit of a reputation, this is what it will be for. </p> <p> It'll take more than a few sales to hoist me out of the hole. But it's starting. </p> <p> Haven't heard from Jackie. Or Lydia, who bought a few pieces. I sent her photos, but haven't heard back. </p> <p> Went to the dentist again. Getting a crown put in. I always suspect it isn't going well for the dentist as he or she works when they mumble something to their assistant and chuckle. Usually in a foreign language I don't understand. </p> <p> There're good and bad dentists just like good and bad painters. I hope these ones are capable. </p> <p> I feel like making some new screens. They've sat on the back burner long enough. </p> <p> I had an unpleasant experience about the large, wide-format printer. After 36 back-breaking payments, they now say I owe ten more because I didn't tell them in writing that I finished with the contract. </p> <p> Some people make their living by disgusting practices. I'm so happy that I'm so far from such types. That I've never tried to swindle anyone, or even overcharge them. Not even once. </p> <p> How do they live with themselves? Is it anything close to a genuine life? When I try to imagine what goes on in their brains it's very sick-making.</p> <p> One of the few measures of happiness available to me is the knowledge that I am so different than so many mediocre mortals. That I stand apart from them. That I don't bother to dislike them, or feel anger toward them. I'm only aware of their pitifully small natures. </p> <p> It's a sweet feeling . . . </p> <h3> ___________________</h3> <h3> August 16, 2010</h3> <p> Thinking of getting a second mortgage on my building. Just a relatively small one to tide me over until business picks up. I shouldn't rush to sell it at a low price if there are other ways of dealing. </p> <p> Finally it's hot outside. I still haven't turned on the overhead fans in the gallery because of the breeze that tunnels through here. Although it seems very faint today. </p> <p> I just read an interesting observation. By a philosopher. I try to read something chewy, original, abstract every day, and then reflect on it at length as I go about my ordinary business. </p> <p> He speaks of the "joy of grief." In this case it isn't standard grief that is attached to a particular person or situation. This kind of grief could never rise to the level of joy. </p> <p> Instead he writes of a kind of tragic letting go. Where a person simply gives up struggling against the evils, the many sorrows of life. Essentially, he says to himself "oh, fuck it all." And this lifts a heavy load from his shoulders. </p> <p> I don't know if this attitude is exactly joyful. It's more like ridding yourself of all your exasperating hopes and fears. </p> <p> I've never believed that pleasure is nothing but the cessation of pain. I see pleasure as something in itself, a positive reality.</p> <p> The tragic retreat from everything troubling is rightly seen as a little death. A hint of things to come.</p> <p> This pure grief is a sense of the universally very imperfect nature of the world. </p> <p> You can't take either your money or your unhappiness with you when you croak. You cast off naked and alone. </p> <p> But why didn't you see it much earlier? Why didn't you feel this way by the time you reached the age of reason? Why didn't you live cheerfully even it were so?</p> <p> The world may be a disturbing, unfriendly, disapproving place but I don't have to accept it, or allow it to get me down. </p> <p> I don't care for grief, even so-called joyful grief. Even if this means persisting in my painful illusions: the belief that things will always get better. </p> <p> If my paintings slowly improve, why can't the whole of life slowly improve?</p> <h3> ___________________</h3> <h3> August 15, 2010</h3> <p> I don't feel like opening the gallery today. Dante doesn't either. One day a week is needed to restore the batteries.</p> <p> I just printed out a transparency of Darwin, which I'll turn into a silkscreen for my friend. </p> <p> For the last ten years or so I've taken a longer look at Darwin and the absurd controversies that still rage about him and his work. </p> <p> Basically, it's a non-issue for enlightened people. It's not a "theory" of evolution any more than gravity is a theory. It's an established fact. </p> <p> So many books diligently written by so many intellectual men and women. All hotly debating these things. Whether or not religion is compatible with the findings of science. On and on . . . </p> <p> I don't know. Lately I'm considering a different approach. It's neither religious or scientific. I'm not sure what to call it.</p> <p> Sometimes a little naivete can get beyond these burning questions.</p> <p> For example, whether or not God exists. </p> <p> I'm familiar with all the so-called proofs both for and against his existence. Starting in ancient times, through the middle ages, right on up to the present. </p> <p> None are that convincing, on either side. Nothing that I've read either proves or disproves the existence of God. I'm not saying that it can't be done. It's just that it hasn't been done. </p> <p> How can you prove or disprove the existence of God when you can't even prove that your own nose exists? Or doesn't exist. The same is true for a tree, a Toyota, a wedge of cheese, or a galaxy.</p> <p> All proof is based on the language of logic, and language itself is a tool of time and space. That is, even the most rigorous proof will necessarily be presented in time, and therefore leave an infinitesimal difference between the subject and predicate. Every affirmation is only partly so, leaving room for doubt. </p> <p> Since I'm not even sure that I exist, imagine the impudence required to say for certain that God either does or doesn't exist. It's laughable. It's pathetic. What a tasteless joke. </p> <h3> __________________</h3> <h3> August 14, 2010</h3> <p> A man and a woman walked into the gallery yesterday.</p> <p> "I love your stuff. It reminds me of Bukowski. Am I right?" he asked.</p> <p> "I like Bukowski a lot."</p> <p> "I knew it. And also a bit of Warhol."</p> <p> "Warhol is great, but I'm trying to move beyond pop art. I prefer the text pieces. They're more my own."</p> <p> "I agree. What about Hunter Thompson? Do you like him? I think I know where you're coming from."</p> <p> "He's okay. I actually have a few first editions of him."</p> <p> "Just okay?"</p> <p> "Right."</p> <p> "Well, I guess he isn't really a fiction writer. How about Tom Wolfe?"</p> <p> "No."</p> <p> "No?"</p> <p> "I don't care for him. I only like a few American writers. Hemingway and Bukowski. That's about it these days. Are you a writer?"</p> <p> "I am. We publish graphic novels. Who besides the American writers?"</p> <p> "Oh, the French and the Russians. Dostoyevsky, Sartre, Stendhal, Proust. Also, Knut Hamsun."</p> <p> "Sure, Dostoyevsky. I can see it."</p> <p> "A few years ago a kid came in here and showed me the graphic novel he was working on. He was very gifted. I like cartoons. If they're not funny. He even gave me one of his drawings. I made a silkscreen of it, and was actually holding it this morning. Wondering if I should print it."</p> <p> "Well, we publish them."</p> <p> "I wish I could remember his name. I asked him for a drawing of a pretty girl holding a gun. It's really good."</p> <p> I think I'll make another version of that screen. Maybe the young man who drew it will stop by if I put it in the window. I wonder if he got his graphic novel published.</p> <p> I like the concept of graphic novels, but I doubt if I'd ever buy one. Or make one.</p> <p> The paintings, and the blog, are enough.</p> <h3> ____________________</h3> <h3> August 13, 2010</h3> <p> I'm having trouble with the font size. Either too large, or too small. The tools on this website aren't designed for writing. I try to work around the problem.</p> <p> Anyway. I finished four small ones and brought them to the gallery. They look good. I'm improving, little by little. </p> <p> The day when I can't improve is the day when I stop painting. </p> <p> My improvement is often only perceived by me. Others sometimes prefer the earlier pieces. I can't see it that way. </p> <p> A nice guy walked in and wants to buy several for his cafe in Pasadena. He owns one already, and wants musicians, since they have live music there.</p> <p> He told me about his life.</p> <p> "I started in pre-med, then changed to law school, and practiced for twelve years. But it wasn't enough, so I opened the cafe. I just don't want to be one of those guys on their deathbed who look back and wished they had done something more."</p> <p> "I hear you. That won't be me. I've done what I wanted to do for the last fifty years. But you can always draw closer to your essential self."</p> <p> "I know. It's not a joy ride. This restaurant business is a big risk. Very scary. I have to work twice as hard. But I've always liked off beat jobs. Once I worked at a jail. As a bail bondsman. It's funny, but I met a serial killer, and he talked just like we do."</p> <p> "A serial killer. I don't know if I've ever met one. Maybe I have, though. What was he like?"</p> <p> "I just couldn't see anything that stood out and clued me into the fact that he surprised women coming out of the shower and killed several. It wasn't in LA."</p> <p> "I think part of being a good artist is to familiarize myself with the widest possible range of humanity. Not that I want to talk to a serial killer."</p> <p> "I didn't know he was until afterward."</p> <p> "It always surprises me how people live such narrow lives, and have such narrow views. Like their whole life is spent crawling through a small tube."</p> <p> "Try to stop by the cafe and hear some good music."</p> <p> "I'll do that."</p> <p> ________________</p> <h3> August 12, 2010</h3> <h3> Consider the question of love and time. They have a strange relationship. You might think they're antagonistic, but then again, they often work well together. </h3> <h3> The more time spent as a couple, the more love between two people. Like two rocks tumbling together, all the rough edges are smoothed away. They've learned how to get along. Even enjoy each other's presence.</h3> <h3> On the other hand love declines over the years. Until two people have nothing more to say to each other. They don't want to touch each other. They don't want to hear each other. See each other. Smell each other. They've developed an allergy to each other. </h3> <h3> We only have a limited amount of sensory exchanges. We can only listen to one voice for so long. We can only touch one body for a prescribed number of times before it's less interesting than touching ourselves. Or touching a rock, or a tree trunk. Anything but the same old body. </h3> <h3> "Time weakens love, but strengthens friendship."</h3> <h3> If time isn't giving birth to greater love it's gradually destroying it. Or replacing it.</h3> <h3> In considering my feelings for Ava, the woman in my past, I think life has cooperated by keeping us far apart for many years. We haven't drawn on our emotional account, and watched the balance steadily grow. </h3> <h3> Most people imagine themselves lucky when they immediately feast on each other, but this means that they run through their finite capital of passion like drunken sailors, and soon want to separate as quickly as they came together. </h3> <h3> But, nevertheless, a carefully measured release of satisfaction also has its penalties. </h3> <h3> Our passion has to survive the deforming onslaught of the years. It's hard to argue that people become more beautiful and desirable after decades pass. At a certain point beauty must begin to wilt. Its petals turning brown at the edges. </h3> <h3> Time is just as cruel to men as it is to women. But in another way. Older men may superficially look a little better at times, but their innards are already beginning to rot. </h3> <h3> So waiting is good, but not for too long. </h3> <h3> With one exception. If people have known each other for many years, and were attracted in the beginning, they tend to fix the image of the beloved at the earliest moment. When passion was burning very bright and hot.</h3> <h3> I still see Ava as a young woman. To me she will always be twenty-one. She managed to crystallize herself at that age. She remains changelessly beautiful. </h3> <h3> As long as there's enough distance between us. </h3> <h3> It allows us to dream.</h3> <h3> __________________</h3> <h3> August 11, 2010</h3> <h3> I heard from a woman from my past. Lydia. </h3> <h3> Ava is the subject of many of my text pieces. They're based on certain ideas, experiences, and emotions that took place between us. </h3> <h3> Maybe I should say took place in me. </h3> <h3> One or two text pieces involve other women, and other situations. </h3> <h3> None are purely imaginary. When I write about someone real, and something real, people can tell. You can't fake it.</h3> <h3> I suppose the strongest emotions a human undergoes are grouped around a few areas. Not many at all. </h3> <h3> Ava brought out some overpowering sensations. No one can endure such things without making a sound. A yell, a cry, a groan. This is the origin of the blues. </h3> <h3> The original bluesmen were Arab nomads, wailing in the darkness, about the pain of love. This agonized cry transformed itself into song. And moved closer to medieval Europe, and eventually to America, where it was adopted by the enslaved men and women of the south. </h3> <h3> Every man and woman knows disappointment in love. It's an essential part of being human.</h3> <h3> There are many shades of sorrow when it comes to love. All the way from violent death to something as trivial as being stood up on a date. </h3> <h3> Nothing is as fascinating as the asymmetry of romance. </h3> <h3> This baffling inequality of passion. </h3> <h3> Ava is like open heart surgery that has gone on for thirty years. Why?</h3> <h3> I think the only love that lasts that long, for artists and poets, at any rate, is a love that continues to hunger for sexual satisfaction. </h3> <h3> Where there's desire there's love. </h3> <h3> Where there's quenched desire, that's the end of love. </h3> <h3> As long as I still want to make love to Ava, she'll remain a collaged portrait of pleasure and pain. </h3> <h3> I suffer from longing. It can be a permanent, omnipresent misery. Like an incurable, non-fatal illness. </h3> <h3> Something you can live with, but not live that joyously.</h3> <h3> Humanity has accomplished many things, but it hasn't solved this universal unhappiness. </h3> <h3> Well, I was planning on writing about Ava, and I suppose I have, but too indirectly.</h3> <h3> "I thought I was about to appear in your journal," she said yesterday.</h3> <h3> ______________ </h3> <h3> August 10, 2010</h3> <h3> Went to the dentist this morning. Then dealt with some bills, returning phone calls. </h3> <h3> Why would an artist want anything more than the time and space to make his art? Anything that stops him from that is less than that. But I don't think people think it over as well as they should before they embark on this long, rocky path. </h3> <h3> Life tames a man. It strips him of so many illusions, one after another, without mercy. </h3> <h3> Until he's left with a single naked desire. Simply to express his soul and body without interruption. All diversions, anything except necessities, like food, drink, sleep, are torture.</h3> <h3> This sensitivity to creative delays and roadblocks increases with time. </h3> <h3> There were days that I could spend walking on the beach, or strolling down the sidewalk, and not impatiently loathe it. They're long gone. </h3> <h3> Dante asked about relationships, love, and marriage. I answered as well as I could.</h3> <h3> "My ideas are not popular. I think of myself as a realist, but some might say I'm cynical. Things begin and end. Love is like that. It comes and goes. You can't stop it from starting, or stop it from ending. You once said that love is heaven sent. It just drops into your lap. But it's also from heaven when it flies away."</h3> <h3> "Is this true for everyone? How can some people love each other for a lifetime?"</h3> <h3> "I don't know. I guess I'm not born that way. I like change. Maybe I'm neurotic, maybe I'm rational. I don't know."</h3> <h3> "How about those people who have marriages that last? Are they just lucky?"</h3> <h3> "Or unlucky. But the world has all types. I think it loves variety. Otherwise everyone would look the same. There would only be one kind of tree, one kind of animal. Life wants to spread itself out in a million directions. All of them different. Falling out of love is as interesting to me as falling in love. Because it means you get to do it again."</h3> <h3> "Just repeat yourself? That doesn't seem so good."</h3> <h3> "It's never the same."</h3> <h3> "Can you fall in love, then fall out of love, and back in love again with the same person?"</h3> <h3> "I can't. Nor would I bother trying. It's like trying to light a pile of ashes on fire."</h3> <h3> _______________</h3> <h3> August 9, 2010</h3> <h3> I made a few pieces this morning. And drove to the gallery. </h3> <h3> A guy who owns a cafe in Pasadena called and wants some for his walls. He asked me to check out his place. Maybe I'll be able to give it a look. He has live music.</h3> <h3> I get restless listening to music when I feel like having a conversation. People even have told me to zip it. At some jazz bar. I won't be returning.</h3> <h3> What good is music that forces you to shut up as you listen? If it doesn't have the power to focus my attention, well, it's the musicians fault. </h3> <h3> But for sheer volume it's hard to beat a Mexican juke box. When the patrons pump a quarter into the slot they expect their song to be heard. And it is. </h3> <h3> Yesterday I was grumbling about people just window shopping, but right after that a woman walked in.</h3> <h3> "I was driving by and I saw your text art and I couldn't get it out of my mind. I had to come back."</h3> <h3> "That's the kind of response I want."</h3> <h3> "They are fucking great! All of them. I want several, but I can't decide. I want them all."</h3> <h3> She went from one to the other. She was very animated and sharp. </h3> <h3> So what does she do?</h3> <h3> I always like to hear about other people's lives, but I try to be careful and not break into their appreciation of my paintings. I shouldn't distract them at this moment.</h3> <h3> "I have a film production company. Some partners and myself. Oh, that is sensational. That is a fucking fantastic painting."</h3> <h3> "I'm glad you feel that way. Young woman tend to enjoy what I make."</h3> <h3> "I'm not so young," she laughed. </h3> <h3> "You could have fooled me." </h3> <h3> No. She was young. I suppose it's relative to my age. Women who were once old, now are young. </h3> <h3> She chose two small text pieces. </h3> <h3> "You know, you make it all worthwhile," I said to her as she was leaving. "I could feel it the moment you stepped through the door."</h3> <h3> I hope she comes back. It really did provide me with a much-needed lift. </h3> <h3> ___________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> August 9, 2010</h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 11px"> <span style="font-size: 12px"> <span style="font-size: 14px">It's a clear, bright Sunday. The coolest summer in LA for decades, maybe since they've been measuring it.</span></span></span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have to say I predicted it. But it wasn't a very scientific prediction.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I surmised that the volcano in Iceland, which spread a thick cloud of ash across Europe for weeks would eventually in a dissipated form reach California. This would prevent the hottest rays from penetrating, and result in many cloudy days and colder temperatures. The decline in temperatures happened, but I can't say for sure it was caused by volcanic activity. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Still, it was a clever guess, and if I had stock in sun-block lotion I would have sold it. But apparently the East coast was quite hot. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> People are out walking, and they stroll inside the gallery. I'm aware of the differences from the last gallery. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> They look, are very complimentary, and even say they're going to buy. But they don't pull out a credit card. They're waiting until they can do that again.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The populace has been rocked. They've lost confidence. They're jittery, doubtful.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But they can't break their habit of instant consumption. They do everything except spread out cash on the table. They go through all the motions of a completed transaction. Except the final act.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> They'll return when things are better. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie was on the verge of tears yesterday.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What can I do? They turned off my house phone. I can't pay the rent. It's been too many years of being broke. I should have married, had a child, like Dante. I've ruined my life. I don't mean to bring you down, but what am I supposed to do? I've tried everything. I've been calling about jobs. I even wrote a place in Toronto. I'm desperate. You're smart. You've lived a full life. Don't you have any answers for me?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'd go down on my knees and pray."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Don't make me laugh, Patrick. This is serious."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's what I do. I'm not joking. It might be time for a change."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can't do that. I made a really good painting yesterday. Tell me if it's good or not. If it's shitty, I'll quit and marry a lawyer or a doctor."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's a good painting."</span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________</span></h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">August 7, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's Saturday, and always a few more people stop by. But no sales so far.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I really, really love your new piece," Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Man, I can never tell what your reaction will be."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It finally looks like a painting. Not a print."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We disagree about the work, even though we both use the same techniques. I personally see what I do as paintings, but she sees them as prints on canvas. Unless the great majority of the canvas is covered with hand painting. Which we also do, more and more. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So you think unless the pigment is brushed on it doesn't qualify as painting?" I asked her, a few years back.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, I don't say that."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What if you troweled the paint, or sprayed it, or poured it? Would it still be a painting?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, of course."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But if you pushed the pigment through a sieve it wouldn't be a painting, but instead it'd be a print?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You shouldn't get so defensive about using silkscreens, Patrick."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm just trying to understand where you draw the line between printing and painting."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Lately I just press the colored paste, that is, the paint, through a bare screen with nothing burned into it. No image, word, or design. Maybe this is what it takes for it to qualify as painting. In the eyes of Jackie. Well, okay, then.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She likes my piece more than I do.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I placed the words too low."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can understand that, but it still is your best painting."</span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">August 6, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The weather is beautiful, very sunny and mild. But my feelings don't match. This happens all the time. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I guess my dour, indifferent mood could be caused by a number of things. Money problems. The painting isn't quite what I expected it would be. Even the fact that today is the anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> About fifteen years ago a WW2 photographer walked into my gallery and told me he flew over the destruction right after the incineration. He also said he took plenty of photos of the war that were confiscated as being too inflammatory, too brutal for the public to see. This happened to his Hiroshima pictures.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But he had no doubts about the rightness of dropping the bomb. I argued a few points, but he answered them as he had probably done for fifty years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, I just got off the phone with an insurance guy who gave me a great quote on some insurance for my building. The bank requires it and this often leads to a fight on the phone. I don't like insurance. I never had medical insurance. I'd live without any insurance if it was up to me. I'd put my faith in the gods instead. Like people have been doing for a million years.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I try to do one thing I hate every day. This is my plan. But only one," Dante said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, that's realistic. We have it pretty easy compared to so many people. They have to do fifty hateful things every day."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I know. You can't always expect every meal to be delicious and magnificent. Sometimes it won't be very good. That's how it is."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Especially if you want to stay fit and healthy."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sold a large piece yesterday, along with the small one.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Business is slowly, by fits and starts, picking up. It's how it always has happened, but always with a slightly unpredictable quality. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The present is like the past, but never identical to the past. Deja vu is an illusion, the roughest approximation. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Time is such a prankster. It loves shaking us up, and turning the tables. Showing even the wisest that their knowledge is just a fitful dream and easily punctured. It loves to bring the proud low, and elevate the humble. A mocking spirit.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255,0,0)"> ______________</span></span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255,0,0)">August 5, 2010</span></span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">I pretty much finished a piece that has taken way too long. And it weighs a ton. I've added so much paint and plaster. At least the canvas is extra strong. It's cut from a super-heavyweight drop cloth. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think it's worth it. This drawn-out, labor intensive painting. It's part of the secret to advancing in painting Don't paint what you see. See what you paint. As you keep working.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It shows you things that you won't ever see anywhere else.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It reveals things that you alone can see. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Making a really new piece each time, and not stopping until you do. Very hard. I've always worked according to this principle: never stop on any art object until you experience a flash of perfection. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Just a lightning bolt of perception. It only has to last a second or two. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> By the following day you'll see once again how it could be improved, but by then it's okay to let it go. It's already something else. It's ready to hang in a gallery or be sold. You can't spend your life on a single piece. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Just attain the lightning flash. It's like the period at the end of a sentence. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The realization that your vision wasn't fulfilled is enough driving motivation to begin on a new canvas. And so on it goes. Ad infinitum. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "A guy came in here and wanted to buy two pieces, but he offered such a low price, I told him no way," Dante said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, you can be the tough one, and I guess I'm the pushover."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I hate to see your pieces go so cheaply. He was outside taking on his cell about this or that famous actor. He's a producer. He can afford it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, maybe you have the right idea. We shouldn't part with good paintings at the drop of a hat. If the person is too off-putting, forget it. If they're a poor student, that's different. We're free to do as we like, and we should have faith in their value."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have a reputation for being really capricious when it comes to selling my stuff. Sometimes I even give it away. Or I can draw a firm line. It depends. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Lately, when people write and ask me what their painting is worth I don't bother answering.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's worth nothing, and everything. And anywhere in between. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Value is complicated and always on the move. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's worth whatever you feel its worth. At least to you. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sold another small one. To a friend. She stopped by just to say hello.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Now I own three of yours," she said as she left. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A collector.</span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">August 4, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I keep working on this one large piece, trying to take it to a new level. It isn't always done on a single canvas, though. It may require a whole series.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It reminds me of my studio in Chicago. At the end of the 1980's, when I squirreled myself away from everyone for a year. Pondering, searching, reflecting, until I came up with a new style. It seemed very costly, but it turned out to be well worth it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I then moved to LA, where I used this style for another ten years. Followed by one more big change. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And so here I am again. Balked, straining every nerve, sleeplessly racking my aging brain. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I figured one thing out. Clearer than ever. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Good painting is dimensional painting. It destroys the flatness of the blank surface. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> There are several ways to accomplish this. First of all, there is the illusion of a three dimensional object on a two-dimensional surface. Enhanced by vanishing point perspective. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But there is also the push and pull method. When dark colors recede, and bright ones come forward. By breaking the surface into a mosaic of vibrating planes the painting can dispense with a recognizable image. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Lastly, perhaps the newest technique, one which I have figured out, is the skillful use of layering. Applying paint over sections of previous paint causes a layering effect. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Done expertly it gives the impression of the passage of time. Like an archeological dig. The first layers are the earliest, the last are latest. This creates a sense of history, of change, and even progress. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A well-layered painting can be either abstract or figurative, or a fine balance between the two. Anything is possible. All is permitted. The treatment, the handling, the choices, are everything. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Anyway. I just sold two small text pieces to a guy. He was smart and entertaining. A reporter for the National Enquirer. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What's your biggest scoop," I asked.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I broke the John Edwards story."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That is big."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante asked him if she could give him tips on things. He said sure.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You mean I could get paid for just taking a picture or telling you something I saw or heard?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Apparently so. Dante loved the idea.</span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">August 3, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's hard to know anything fully. But it's even harder to create a system that organizes the knowledge into one great pattern. That's a lifetime job.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And only for those with an extraordinary hunger for understanding. For understanding oneself, the world, the universe, life and death. To account for everything. Even in a fragmentary way.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But that's what it takes to be genuine artist. You can't be a provincial rube.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You have to transcend your local roots, your tribal delusions, your particular slice of time. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I don't want to paint my era. Nor the past. Nor some imaginary future. I try to make paintings that rise above these standard limitations. I plant myself in eternity, even though I'm on earth. I want to express what might be called "everywhere always." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Reveal things that are everywhere always. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I write about situations that are all too human. Everyone can understand them because they find an echo in themselves. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> With this in mind I've decided to make a new text piece:</span></p> <p> The long</p> <p> passionate kisses </p> <p> were soon</p> <p> over</p> <p> I ran it by Dante and she liked it. She understands. She doesn't deny it. </p> <p> Who would? They'd be crazy to.</p> <p> It's a common fate. Intense desire can't last, and often fizzles out much too quickly. </p> <p> Ecstasy isn't designed to go on forever.</p> <p> That's a sad lesson to learn.</p> <p> But once learned life will go better.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ___________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> August 2, 2010</h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 11px"> <span style="font-size: 12px"> I put up on the site three pieces I made last week. I'm still working on the final one. It's turning out to be a difficult painting, and I covered over the canvas with fresh plaster several times.</span></span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> I don't think you can make an excellent painting straight through from start to finish. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> This is the difference between imitation and originality. An imitation goes smoothly and quickly. Because the end is known before you begin. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> Originality means a rejection of self-imitation. It means wandering off the beaten track. Getting lost. Having panic set in. Anguish. Desperation. It can't be otherwise. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> People aren't original not because they haven't enough imagination. They have too much dread of failure, loss, hopelessness, and the unknown. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> Art is original, or it's not art. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> Originality is an painful as it is pleasurable. Most people, including those who are considered artists, have no stomach for the unending torment of originality. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> "Several women walked in the other day and looked at the text art. Then they asked if I could paint words that they pick out. I told them no. I don't do that."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> "That was good. You should only use your own words," Dante said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> "Well, I hate it when I realize what kind of words these women would choose. Probably from some best-seller, or tv program, or a movie. Why can't people think for themselves? Or at least choose the words of a true genius."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> "They only think what other people in their crowd thinks."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> "Right. That's not what a thinker does."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> "If you don't think for yourself, you don't think at all."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 12px"> "I agree. A thinker is someone who thinks about thinking. Someone who takes pleasure in universal ideas."</span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 12px">____________</span></h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 12px">August 1, 2010</span></h3> <p> Have decided to stay in the studio today. Dante and Anthony think six days are enough for the gallery to be open. On Sundays people don't really feel like spending their money. Customers stroll in, but they seldom buy.</p> <p> "Do we have supplies? I bought two black and one white. It cost thirty dollars," said Jackie on the phone.</p> <p> "We have enough. I mixed the plaster, and set aside one of my paintings because we're low on varnish."</p> <p> "Mina gave me some different polyurethane. An expensive kind that was used on the Disney building downtown. It was left over and she wants to know if we're interested in buying it."</p> <p> "Great. Bring it along. Now I won't have to make a trip to Home Depot."</p> <p> "My rent is due. I don't know what to do. I guess I'll feel better if I do some painting."</p> <p> "Right. You will. Maybe we can go out for pizza later on."</p> <p> Jackie hasn't painted in several weeks. This can lead to some dark, depressing thoughts. For a painter, painting is the only happiness available. Nothing else comes close. But you have to paint regularly or you'll slide into despair.</p> <p> She's in a wretched mood. I can hear it her voice.</p> <p> Speaking of wretchedness, I just spent the morning trying to philosophically systematize emotions.</p> <p> What are feelings, and how do they work? Are there such things as primary feelings, like primary colors, or primary sounds?</p> <p> The universe isn't chaotic. It's orderly and has a meaningful, rational structure. But it takes hard work and lengthy searching to figure it out.</p> <p> I have some ideas about emotions. But they aren't clear and simple. Yet. Give me some more time. </p> <p> An artist would be wise to investigate emotions, and our reactions to them. After all, he or she primarily deals with the sphere of feelings. He should do all he can to become an expert in this arena. </p> <p> If he attains mastery it'll definitely show in his art. Without it, no art can be worth much. </p> <p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 19px; color: rgb(255,0,0)">________________</span></p> <p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 19px; color: rgb(255,0,0)">Juy 31, 2010</span></p> <p> I'm staring at two pieces of mine hanging on the gallery wall. One was made about a year ago, the other was finished this morning. And three people today asked about the newest one.</p> <p> How can that be? There are fifty paintings distributed around the room, but when strangers walk in they immediately choose one and ignore the others. </p> <p> Nothing makes me swell with confidence more than a great reception for the latest work. And as I stare at the two the difference is very obvious to me. </p> <p> But the mystery comes from the unanimous appreciation given to one particularly outstanding piece. </p> <p> It's only right that I see the superiority clearly, but how can others instantly feel identical with me? I've worked, studied, and gone half-mad in order to get here. But a casual passerby arrives at the same place at no cost to themselves. </p> <p> Excellence is somehow inbred, situated deeply in each normal human being, having taken root there over hundreds of thousands of years. All cultures, in every era, respond favorably to beauty. Everyone, from the most primitive to the most evolved, intuitively, instantaneously, recognizes superior beauty. </p> <p> It's a finding that fills me with awe. </p> <p> A great beauty in India, Benin, Uruguay, or Montana will still be beautiful wherever she's placed. It's incontestable. </p> <p> Honey is sweet no matter where you are. Or who you are. </p> <p> Sold a few today. Saturday is our busiest day.</p> <p> I'll drive home, make myself a simple dinner, and edit our family newspaper. That's my job. I set aside tonight for this purpose. Everyone loves to wake up to a new issue of photos and writings. </p> <p> I should work on my story while I have a few minutes.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 30, 2010</h3> <p> I'm trying to finish four pieces for tomorrow. Two large, and two small ones. I have this longstanding tendency to replace ones that I've sold. They're the winners. And so I make another version, always trying to improve on them.</p> <p> A painter probably only needs about a dozen paintings in his repertoire. They could last him a lifetime. If he has the passionate drive to keep making them better. </p> <p> Twelve could be too many. A painter only paints one painting. Thousands of different ways.</p> <p> Vision is singular, and versions are multiple.</p> <p> I only have my own ultimate vision. It explodes into a million fragments. Painting is way of piecing my shattered vision together. </p> <p> A hundred thousand beautiful canvases wouldn't be able to reproduce that one perfect perception. </p> <p> But this is why painting can never rest. Why it can never attain its goal. </p> <p> A young woman came into the gallery. She stood there longer than usual. </p> <p> "I'm a writer, too. I graduated from Cal Arts. I put together a show of ninety written pieces, and ninety photographs. I even use a typewriter font. Not the same one as yours, though," she said.</p> <p> "I've never met another artist who also makes text paintings. Do you combine imagery with your writing?"</p> <p> "No, the writing stands by itself."</p> <p> "Do you have any you can show me?"</p> <p> "Maybe I have one on my phone." She searched as we talked. "People asked me what they were when I had my show. I couldn't call them poems. I didn't know how to answer them."</p> <p> "I have the same problem. They aren't poems, nor maxims. Nor prose. Nor even paintings, strictly speaking. I suppose they're like bits of lyrics to unsung music. Songs that will never be made. What did you write them on?"</p> <p> "Paper."</p> <p> "Framing costs can add up. I use canvas because it's actually the cheapest medium. I cut up drop cloths and make my own stretchers."</p> <p> "I didn't frame them. I pinned the paper to the wall."</p> <p> "Why don't you send me some pictures of your work?"</p> <p> "I'll do that." </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _______________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 29, 2010</h3> <p> "When I first met you I was surprised to learn that you were the artist as well as the gallery owner," Jackie once said.</p> <p> "I don't imagine I'm the first to do that."</p> <p> "No, but to see you sitting there at the computer was unusual. Shouldn't you be in your studio painting?"</p> <p> "An artist is often doing his hardest work when he isn't inside the studio. He's studying life, and thinking about how he can improve his art."</p> <p> "I suppose that can be true."</p> <p> "Besides, I can't afford to pay someone to sell my stuff. I've tried that and it was always disastrous."</p> <p> In a way, it's good to step back from painting. Now and then.</p> <p> An artist can't grow any faster than he can. No more than a flower, or a tree, or a horse. He can change, but that isn't necessarily growth, which comes from within. Growth as a painter can't be sped up, or even slowed down. It's an inner principle rooted in a person's character. It happens silently, invisibly, over time, at its own hidden tempo.</p> <p> I often wonder how much I lose by meeting the people who either own or are thinking of owning my paintings. It'd be stupid to assume that actually laying eyes on the artist automatically helps the art. Hardly.</p> <p> If anything the art should be much better than the person who makes it. Art is the quintessence of a human being. It's his peak aspect. </p> <p> I would be a little suspicious of an artist who is too charismatic, too striking, too magnetic in person. It would mean that he's spent more effort on making the artist and not enough on the art. </p> <p> Distance helps out in both love and hate. It's hard to feel strongly about either if you get too close. Extreme adoration and extreme loathing are set aside for people we've never met, and will never meet. </p> <p> The disenchantment of intimacy.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ______________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 28, 2010</h3> <p> I had to go to the doctor's for my yearly checkup. It 's been a week of doing stuff I dislike. The office is in Chinatown, and I enjoy driving through and looking at the buildings. </p> <p> The nurse is Chinese. Her name is Hong. </p> <p> "Are you busy?" she asked.</p> <p> "I've been busier."</p> <p> "Busy is good."</p> <p> "Yeah, busy is good."</p> <p> "You heard about the doctor who used to always walk? He walked round and round. Every day. He took year off and he went crazy. He killed himself. He was young."</p> <p> "Right. Only 58."</p> <p> I don't think that the Chinese or Latinos believe in taking a year off. They work non-stop. Hong made it clear that she believes loafing causes madness, which can lead to suicide. She was refering to a well-known LA eccentric who was in the news lately. </p> <p> I was happy to hear from Lydia Hearst again. She owns five of my pieces, and was moving into her new apartment here. She wrote from London, and said she likes one of my text pieces, and wants to stop by. I'll have to tell her about the new gallery. A really pretty, intelligent young woman. </p> <p> Then Jackie showed up at the store, accompanied by her beagle, Brando. I hadn't seen her for a few weeks. She looked good.</p> <p> "Your time away seems to have helped. You got some sun, and your body is toned."</p> <p> "I can't be toned. I don't work out."</p> <p> "I wish I had some money. We haven't gone out to dinner for the longest time."</p> <p> "It would be very nice."</p> <p> "Long, zany conversations over good food and drink. Let the whackiness begin."</p> <p> "I'm not in the mood for that."</p> <p> "Funny, but I feel great. Just cash poor, at this second. The paintings are turning out."</p> <p> "Mine are, too. But not for much longer without money. Did you buy some supplies?"</p> <p> "No. I was hoping to make a sale today. But I'll pick up some plaster tomorrow."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> __________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 27, 2010</h3> <p> Lowered the price on my building. It's the third time I've dropped it. I've hit another rough patch, but it's not unique.</p> <p> I can recall at least six other moments when I'd painted myself into a corner. I wriggled free but not without sweating blood. </p> <p> Does this happen to everyone, or is it just my particular destiny? I think I know the answer, but I'm not sure what to say about it.</p> <p> In every previous crisis, the lack of money merely pointed to a bigger issue. I had to make a major change. </p> <p> Things come to an end. And, in my case, it's just as well. I've always used these bleak, depressing situations to move myself forward.</p> <p> If the money kept flowing, I'd still be vegetating somewhere out in the boondocks, a lifelong hick with nothing to show for it. Just a mediocre success, churning out hack work.</p> <p> It would have been catastrophic. It would have mortally wounded, and savagely destroyed my identity. The harder they make it on me, the better it is. </p> <p> The pain comes from ignoring for too long my original, heaven-sent destiny. </p> <p> The gods joyfully kick the crutches out from under those they love. I need to walk on my own healthy two feet. Cheerfully into the future. </p> <p> An attractive, energetic girl marched in the store. She asked me for a job.</p> <p> "I have two passions. Cooking and painting," she said.</p> <p> "They're more closely related than you might imagine," I answered, thinking of the way I mix my plaster and color and varnish in a big can. Like some chef. </p> <p> "Where do you get your inspiration?" </p> <p> "I'm inspired by the strongest, deepest, most exceptional experiences of my life. Everything comes from that."</p> <p> I've been asked that question before and I felt it was time to answer it as truthfully as possible. Looking around the gallery it may or may not be obvious, but that's how it is. I can see it, and others eventually will be able to do the same.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _______________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 26, 2010</h3> <p> Many years ago I taught school. I remember it well. I was puzzled by the way the students responded to my remarks. There was a group, almost half the class, who liked my humorous style. They laughed at the funny stuff. They were there to be entertained.</p> <p> But when I switched to serious things, they tuned out and began to doze. </p> <p> A few students preferred the tragic to the comic. They sought instruction over entertainment. </p> <p> My classroom was a symbol of the world. Even today people walk in my gallery, and as they view the paintings, laugh out loud. They think I'm being funny. They see a comical side in the text pieces. </p> <p> But I don't want to be thought funny when it comes to painting. I can't think of a single masterpiece in art history that's funny. No supreme paintings. </p> <p> Paintings are either sublime, or tragic. More inclined to bring tears to the eyes than a loud horse laugh. </p> <p> This is why cartoons are not a good bet. Painters might avoid that path, if they're wise. Unless they can make a powerful, original, beautiful cartoon.</p> <p> Frivolous types don't particularly like paintings. A frivolous person avoids both depth and height when it comes to his emotions. He's very suspicious of his strongest emotions. He doesn't want to face them, and is afraid of setting them loose. </p> <p> If a shallow person likes paintings it's for all the wrong reasons. </p> <p> But even if humor doesn't have a good seat at the banquet of painting, it's welcomed just about everywhere else. </p> <p> You won't meet many people in this world who are so awesome that you break down in front of them. They exist but are as rare as a banana on Mars. </p> <p> Amusing people are more common, and are greatly appreciated. </p> <p> "I tell you who's funny as hell. That girl you run around with. Give her one drink, and she's rocks all night long," Dante said.</p> <p> "Yeah, that's why I don't mind spending long hours with her."</p> <p> "She's as funny as a man."</p> <p> "I agree. She can make a dead person laugh." </p> <h3 style="color: red"> ______________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 25, 2010</h3> <p> Getting a late start today. I wonder whether I'm obsessive enough to write without fail, each day, no matter what the circumstances. I guess I am, at this point in my life.</p> <p> Heard from Dante and Jackie. They both went to Hannah's birthday party over at Dante's. So I heard two reports. Apparently it was fun, and everyone enjoyed themselves.</p> <p> "It was split right down the middle. There was the non-drinking crowd, and the drinkers. I of course hung around the bar area. The non-drinkers ate pizza, and went outside and smoked cigarettes. I guess that's what they call a good time," said Jackie.</p> <p> "I wouldn't know."</p> <p> "Amedeo was so cute. He only stayed up for a little while, then he went off to sleep. I guess that's why the party began so late. She wanted him to be in bed. Hannah looked really nice and loved her diamond. I fastened it around her neck for her. Dante also looked beautiful. She was wearing a great dress. Yo was also in a good mood. His friends were there."</p> <p> "Dante said it was one of her better parties. She loves throwing them."</p> <p> "She's good at it. And their apartment is so attractive. I decided I was only going to talk to women I want to hang out with. That eliminated the non-drinkers. I talked to this one woman in Hannah's writing class. I need a friend in LA. This is really crucial to my well-being. Here I am at 33, not socially unskillful, not grotesque-looking, and I'm completely alone. I have do something about it."</p> <p> "I can understand that. People need to have a feeling of belonging. It's especially important between the ages of 20 and 40. They have to be able to put together a viable scene. Or else they may as well move on . . . "</p> <p> "I don't know about a scene. Just one good friend would do fine. Cricket wanted to go out after the party, but I'm too broke, and passed. I arrived at 8:15 and stayed until about 12."</p> <p> "That's a long time."</p> <p> "It is. But it didn't feel that way."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ______________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 24, 2010</h3> <p> Got up early and finished four pieces. I then took them over to the gallery. I already sold one. To a tall, blond young woman. </p> <p> Women definitely like my small text canvases. I must be in touch with my feminine side. Obviously, I am. </p> <p> But these works aren't flowery and colorful. If anything they are a little sardonic. I suppose this should tell me something about women. </p> <p> An artist needs all the help he can get. To be a painter only in touch with half his nature is like painting with one side of his body paralyzed. Not an easy thing.</p> <p> And no wonder painters have trouble moving anyone. I mean really grabbing them, shaking them, haunting them. Most art, contemporary and otherwise, is nothing so wonderful. I can see why people ignore it. </p> <p> A painting should be like a very effective incantation. It should make an absent world present. How it's able to do this is a mystery. </p> <p> Paintings have always had this strange power. Good paintings. Great ones. </p> <p> This flat, colored, motionless rectangle attached to a wall can be the most alive thing in a building. How this is possible is hard to pinpoint. </p> <p> A painting can't compete with a television. People will immediately turn to watch an animated screen. But once it's turned off, their eyes stray to the silent painting. It offers up a different dimension, a sense of permanence in the midst of violent change. It speaks to a deeper part of the brain. </p> <p> What else? I heard from Pat O'Brien, the tv journalist. Another wild Irishman. A good guy. He owns several of my pieces. I guess he's now living in New York. </p> <p> He owns an Indian painting. And wanted to know the brave's name. It's either Thunder Cloud or High Bear. The only ones I've done lately. I want to make some new ones. I loved reading Geronimo's autobiography. I may make his portrait, although it's a bit too well known. But I can do it better. </p> <p> I'm in a somewhat anxious, dejected, confused mood, but the paintings are looking very good. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> ____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 23, 2010</h3> <p> Dinner was enjoyable. We met at a new place a few blocks down the street from our gallery. Named "goal." A sports bar, not large, with red leather booths, and a small, inexpensive menu. Our kind of joint.</p> <p> "I know where I'll go during football season to catch a game or two," I said.</p> <p> It was Dante, Amedeo, Yo, birthday girl Hannah, Tony, her boy friend, Stephanie, and me. It wasn't a house-rockin' night. We just ate, sang Happy Birthday, and pushed off. Very easy going and friendly. </p> <p> I had cheese nachos and a glass of chardonnay. It's basically bar food. But LA style. Meaning with a lighter, imaginative touch. Smaller portions. This neighborhood has become very trendy over the last ten years. But I could hit this place, and not feel ripped off. Frankly, it's the only affordable spot around. Even Farmer's Market has gone up. </p> <p> If I move, I'll have to drive back to Boyle Heights for restaurants. Anywhere else is prohibitive. Grocery stores are rock bottom there.</p> <p> I was surprised at how relaxed my grandson was. He ate the food, and was mesmerized by the bank of tv sets, each turned to a different game. He kept saying "baseball!", or something that sounded close to it.</p> <p> "Some girls were playing softball at the park the other day, and he just stood there without moving. He loved it," Yo said.</p> <p> "Maybe it's time to buy him a whiffle ball." I guess they still have sets available.</p> <p> "Right. He's also good at soccer. He can stay with the ball and run alongside as he kicks it. Because he doesn't kick it very far."</p> <p> I think he's going to be a natural athlete. Like his dad, who had a full scholarship to Duke. </p> <p> "I've had the worst jet lag." Jackie said, on the phone. "That's why I've laid low. A seven hour flight. And I was in the 22nd row, out of 23."</p> <p> "Right next to the bathroom. How nice."</p> <p> "I was depressed the whole time. I'll tell you all about it. My poor father. He's like 200 years old. He fell the first night I was home, and it kind of ruined it for everyone. It was no vacation, believe me. And now I'm back, and nothing's changed. Or maybe gotten worse. How about you?"</p> <p> "Not much better. The dentist is still thinking of buying my building, but he'd have spend too much to get it ready for his office. He said no one can make a Taj Mahal in the middle of a city."</p> <p> "Good. I hope he doesn't buy it. If he does I'll really be fucked."</p> <p> "It won't happen any time soon. It probably won't happen at all."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> __________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 23, 2010</h3> <p> I put a new painting on the website. The first one seen as you log on. I call it black + gray. It's one of my larger, mostly abstract pieces. </p> <p> I keep trying to simplify, without making it boring and forgettable. They say keep it simple. But no one says keep it simplistic. A stripped down, unworked, too plain, superficial piece is never the idea. </p> <p> But half is bigger and more satisfying than the whole. </p> <p> A half seen face, a half heard remark, a half embrace: they all have their charm. </p> <p> The newest painting taught me a few things. I've already mentioned the half being better than the whole. </p> <p> Secondly, gray is a beautiful color. "Gray makes me feel happy," my daughter said. Well, she was born in British Columbia, where the weather is many shades of gray. She loves the fine drizzling rain. I'll use more gray in the future.</p> <p> I told Asch that my latest pieces are somewhat like scraped billboards. That was what a negative critic once said about an abstract painter's work. I forget whether or not the painter liked the comment. But I think in fact today it is something to strive for. </p> <p> My idea is this. To make a painting that looks as if it is composed of many semi-obliterated layers. Each layer is like the remains of a previous era, another time, another set of values, another historical moment, or psychological crisis. </p> <p> I want to create resurrected ruins, paintings that have already gone through their trials, already endured their abuse, having nobly suffered, and survived. They stand invulnerable, triumphant, covered with heroically beautiful scars. They can no longer experience harm. Any further vandalism only adds to their spell-binding allure. </p> <p> In keeping with this concept I discovered a third thing when painting this last one. I screened some red diamonds across it, as a final touch. Instead of my usual strong pressure I stroked the paint lightly with the squeegee. So it only partially printed. I've always been anxious to build up surfaces, and press hard on my loaded brushes or squeegees. </p> <p> But that is no longer necessary. It's too mechanical. It shows a lack of faith. A mistrust of nuance. </p> <p> Today is Hannah's birthday. We're all meeting for dinner.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 21, 2010</h3> <p> Sold some to my friend Asch, who has a store across the street. It's unusual selling the same pieces, when we're right next to each other. It just worked out that way.</p> <p> I knocked the price way down, and so our prices will be roughly the same. Establishing a price structure has always been hard for me.</p> <p> It's caused by several things. Mainly, desperation. When I absolutely must have the cash, I part with a painting for next to nothing. And this has happened many times over my career. If you can call it that. A career, I mean.</p> <p> A painter has a calling. Not a career. A calling is just what it seems like. A sharp, imperious voice inside your head. It never sleeps. It can be the sweetest, softest sound, like a mother's lullaby to her baby. Or it can be deep, like a low growl. It's ignored at your peril. </p> <p> But my prices are all over the map. Except at the higher end. This has actually made it possible to survive only by painting. I'm beholden to no one. I've never had to fawn and fall over someone. Never chapped my lips kissing someone's ass. Nor will it ever happen. I'm past that ignoble temptation by now. </p> <p> I'd rather starve, wearing rags, sleeping under a bridge, before I'd be forced to flatter anyone with money and status. To have to laugh at their inane jokes. Listen to their puerile suggestions. Put up with their idiotic moods. </p> <p> Oh, yeah, I've been lucky. I've gotten this far with my soul only half-wrecked, a little chipped, worn, and with a few hairline cracks. It's still pulsing with beautiful dreams. </p> <p> Jackie arrives home tonight. I won't see her. Until maybe tomorrow. </p> <p> The two weeks went by quickly. I'm no longer the kind of guy who crosses off the days on his calendar. </p> <p> My world is small but jammed full. People can walk out without leaving a vacancy. It closes up instantly. </p> <p> Sometimes I imagine that this entire world is just a complicated, expansive kind of solitary confinement. </p> <p> Seven billion solitary confinement cells. Where people tap out messages on the pipes. And spend their days and nights wondering about the other inhabitants. Who they are. What is their offense? When will they be freed? </p> <p> Started on some new ones. I'm in a new kind of unfamiliar pattern. I finally understood how to describe my life. A seven-fold reality, like a flower with seven petals. It would take too long to explain. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 21, 2010</h3> <p> The other day a woman stopped by at the gallery. We talked, and I asked what she did for a living.</p> <p> "I teach stand-up comedy."</p> <p> "I guess that can be done."</p> <p> "It can. I give them a short course on how to become funnier."</p> <p> I told her I had a perfect student for her. Jackie. Maybe Jackie could swap a painting for some tips on doing stand-up. She hates it when I keep bringing up this topic. But that girl is quick. And funny. </p> <p> Most interesting, her quips are always straight from her personality. She never copies anyone's words. This really helps. Nothing drearier than a secondhand remark.</p> <p> I once wrote a manuscript on the same topic. A how-to book. I sent it to my professor friend, who was supposed to be my collaborator. He said the manuscript was stolen out of his car. I have no reason not to believe him.</p> <p> That was the end of it. I taught myself a few things as I wrote down my theories. But I don't believe I became any funnier.</p> <p> So I said to Hannah on Saturday.</p> <p> "Why don't you give a course on how to publish a short story?"</p> <p> "A course?"</p> <p> "Right. Advertise on craigslist. Five one hour private classes. You've published short stories, both online and in hard copy. You know how to do it."</p> <p> "It isn't a bad idea. I could probably do it. I'd just tell them some of things I've learned in my classes. How much would I charge?"</p> <p> "$200. You couldn't guarantee that they'd have their writing published, but it would definitely make it more possible. And you could have them read your own pieces, just to show that you're a pro."</p> <p> Hannah would definitely make a good writing teacher. She has a rare gift. Her father, Robert, is a well-known poet. And taught for many years.</p> <p> Teaching. It's a strange calling. It certainly doesn't have to be done in a certified academic setting. And at least 90% isn't. Just being around someone who knows what they're doing is enough. </p> <p> But in every important thing in my life I've always been self-taught. It's a very slow, but very reliable method of attaining mastery of a subject. </p> <p> I always suggest people checking out Hannah's stories: google Hannah Sward. They're very entertaining. Perfect gems. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 19, 2010</h3> <p> It's necessary to live a life layered on top of life. An extra life, a two-fold life, when one will do. For most people, that is. </p> <p> What people call life is just thoughtlessly moving around pieces on a game board, something routine, and tiresome.</p> <p> I spend my days immersed in questions about identity. And how hard it is to arrive at my uncontaminated nature. I've been influenced, impressed, covered up, shunted along, poisoned, twisted, and confused by so many alien forces that it's a full time job just to recover and come to my purified senses. </p> <p> Painting is freedom, but I haven't truly embraced that idea. I haven't even embraced painting itself. </p> <p> There was a time when I went to museums, art galleries, and read books about art. I still do, in fact. </p> <p> But the more I know about art, the less I care about it. Not that the subject is dull and pointless. Not at all. Compared to other things it shines like a beacon in the night. </p> <p> But art is always other people's art. It bears very little relation to me, and who I primordially am. </p> <p> I haven't lived my life. I've merely put in my time. And awkwardly danced to everyone's tune. </p> <p> Boredom is the signpost that appears at moments along the road to supreme value. It always points in a new direction. </p> <p> To even know this, means that life above life is operating in your being. </p> <p> The better direction isn't a trip of a thousand miles. Not even a trip of one inch. </p> <p> To want life over death you have to be dead to this mockery of life, this cardboard, grinning pantomime. </p> <p> I just might be getting somewhere. After all this wretched toil and concern. </p> <p> Another life is growing from a decayed plot.</p> <p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 19px; color: rgb(255,0,0)">_____________</span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> July 18, 2010</h3> <p> "What're you doing?" Jackie asked.</p> <p> "Getting ready to go to the gallery. How about you?"</p> <p> "Sitting outside by the pool. And watching my parents' dog. No! Stay here, Ringo. I named him Ringo, remember?"</p> <p> "What do your parents call him? Richard?"</p> <p> "They call him Ringo. They're at Mass, and I have the place to myself."</p> <p> "Have you gone out for dinner?"</p> <p> "A few times. Last night my father cooked scallops. They were excellent. He loves to cook seafood. And he buys fresh ingredients. He goes to this fish market. Scallops are hard to get right. Either they're too done on the outside, or undercooked on the inside."</p> <p> "How about drinks?"</p> <p> "He keeps buying me bottles of Grey Goose. I tell him to stop, but he just laughs. I can polish off a whole bottle every night. I did last night, but I don't even have a hangover. Not the same as that wine you drink. It gives me a royal headache."</p> <p> "It sounds like you're enjoying yourself."</p> <p> "I am. I don't even know when I'll come back to LA. I have to come back sometime, because I have my apartment. But I mean I'm in no rush, because I don't have any money waiting for me when I get there. I call my gallery everyday. No sales so far."</p> <p> "That's a drag."</p> <p> "It is. They live very well here. They added another bedroom. That makes six. It's a big house and they just put it on the market."</p> <p> "Any interest?"</p> <p> "Yes, this young couple came by the other day. But I don't think they had enough money. So I got Dante's invitation to Hannah's birthday party. At her house on Saturday night, right?"</p> <p> "Yeah. Hannah looks great. Hard to believe she's turning forty. She and Tony took Amedeo for a few hours while Dante and I watched the shop."</p> <p> "I may be back by then. Although it doesn't seem to matter. No one misses me."</p> <p> "How can you say that? I miss you."</p> <p> "Okay. I'll call you if I'm bored."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 17, 2010</h3> <p> Sweltering outside. But the gallery is cool enough. There's a wind tunnel between the back and front door. It manages to catch the slightest breeze, on any given day.</p> <p> I've sold two large pieces today. It's about what we will need to do everyday in order for it to succeed. Maybe in a couple of years. I actually have hopes for the venture.</p> <p> Many people trooping through. Plenty of compliments.</p> <p> Also, amusing scenes. I guess I've missed these minor interactions when I lived at the studio.</p> <p> One woman, who received a small text piece of mine as a gift from her boy friend said some astute things.</p> <p> "This is so true," she said, standing in front of some words. "You must be in touch with yourself."</p> <p> "Yeah, I guess I am. But you're the first person who's ever mentioned it. It's very essential for an artist."</p> <p> "It shows, and I can understand it when I look around the room."</p> <p> "An artist digs down deeply and strikes a chord that everyone feels."</p> <p> "Because it's in everyone."</p> <p> The contemporary physicists are in hot pursuit of the ultimate basis of matter. They call it the "God particle." Artists do the same, and they're lucky if they find it, and bring it to life in their art. It's what connects everything to everything.</p> <p> It must love to hide. You can spend your life painting, making music, writing -- and still not reveal the God particle. This makes the difference between mediocre and great art. </p> <p> I've been at the store all afternoon. And I've made my kill for the day. I'm ready to head home. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> ________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 16, 2010</h3> <p> I received a phone call yesterday. It was from a guy I hadn' t seen in several years. He used to sell my paintings. </p> <p> An unlikely dealer, in a way. A heavy-set former Marine, ex-biker. Somehow he opened a few furniture stores. He's clever, and always starting something new when something old fizzles out. </p> <p> We had a pretty good relationship. But I had to watch him closely. After a few checks came back.</p> <p> "What're you up to, brother?"</p> <p> "Hey, Patrick, I'm doing great. Dropped 90 pounds. Opened up in Beverly Hills, selling imported tiles. Beautiful stuff. Stop by and see it. Also, got divorced."</p> <p> "No kidding?"</p> <p> "Yeah, she was cheating on me. With some young beefcake. I caught her a couple of times. She promised she'd stop, and that she loved me. But a week later she was at it again. I told her I was leaving. She even went down on her knees, begging me not to go. Crying. Promising it was over. Then two weeks goes by and I caught her balling him. Still. After all that. I just packed up and left."</p> <p> "You can do better, Roy."</p> <p> "Yeah, everything worked out. I have this new business and I'm selling like crazy. I was in the last one with a partner, but I ended up selling all our stock and keeping all the money. I then opened up this place, and after a few months paid him back. Everything I owed him, even with interest. He's still pissed, though. He said I used his money to set up a new store, right down the street, and now I'm his biggest competitor."</p> <p> He wanted to know if I could paint something for one of his friends. I said I could, a gave him a price. He thought it was high, but he'll see it he can make it happen.</p> <p> "You might want to keep it in your pants for a while, and concentrate on your business."</p> <p> "Can't do that. It's just my nature, I guess. But I found another woman. She's divorced with a child, and beautiful. I can't believe my good luck, after so many shitty years."</p> <p> "Even bad luck get tired."</p> <p> "Hah. Bad luck gets tired. It does."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _______________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 15, 2010</h3> <p> People still trying to buy paintings. Trying. But not quite following through. It's like pulling teeth. </p> <p> The pieces have never looked better, but money is still scarce. </p> <p> I can understand their hesitation. But I don't have any cash. I doubt if they're that tapped out. But they sure are slow to pull out their credit cards.</p> <p> Had to go to my bank and straighten out some things on my account. </p> <p> When you're short of dough you find yourself in strange places, talking to strange people. </p> <p> But when you're in the black you just toss money at problems and they vanish. You never have to go out of your way. Never have to do what you don't want to do. Or see who you don't want to see.</p> <p> Maybe a doctor now and then, but even there people with extra income stay in better health, generally. </p> <p> Too much, or too little, money takes you away from yourself. Leads you down unfamiliar roads.</p> <p> Jackie called from New Jersey. "It rained all week. So humid. I didn't even have enough money to leave New York. I had to borrow twenty from Bridget."</p> <p> "What did you do for food?"</p> <p> "I ate slices of pizza. Huge ones, for $2.50. And pork rind spring rolls. As big as burritos. At least food was cheap. I would never again live in New York unless I owned a brownstone on 73rd Street. I'd just stay inside, and only leave to walk in Central Park, and go to the Korean grocers."</p> <p> "So you won't be moving back there."</p> <p> "No, I won't."</p> <p> She'll return to LA next week. But nothing will have changed.</p> <p> One another note, people are always a chronological age. But the present also contains traces of both the past and future. I look at someone and I can see how they'll be in twenty-five years, or how they were twenty-five years ago. It's all there in their face, their body, how they walk, talk, or dress, or carry themselves. </p> <p> This is enough reason to stick around in one place long enough. Just to see if your perception was accurate or not. </p> <p> Some days this truth hits me harder than on others. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> ___________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 14, 2010</h3> <p> Any bad situation always contains seeds of something good. I noticed that today when I went to the dentist's office across the street. Yesterday I discussed my building with the head dentist. He's paying rent now and would like to own the building his practice is in. </p> <p> He could buy my place and move across the street. It would be good for him, as well as good for me. </p> <p> He sent a contractor over this morning and we saw how it could be done. He'd have to tear down the older half, put in a driveway, and pave a new large parking lot in its place. The contractor said it was no big deal, basically a demolition job. Of course, it depends on how the city sees it. If they can issue the right permits. I think they will.</p> <p> So, my bad tooth may lead to a good sale of my property. </p> <p> This is why I'm slow to yelp whenever anything negative suddenly happens. I've learned to see it as an opportunity. </p> <p> Misfortune is like a beautiful woman who wears a frightening mask. Wait a little and she'll remove it. </p> <p> But even if that falls through, I'm confident something better will come along. </p> <p> I heard back from the Taiwanese woman, who said it's okay to describe her as either Chinese or Taiwanese. She said we could possibly work together on a few things, such as getting her business in LA off the ground, as well as opening up a market for my paintings in Asia. </p> <p> A lot of people have in the past discussed selling my art in various places in Asia, but so far very little has come of it. I once sold a group of small ones to guy who has a coffeehouse in Seoul. </p> <p> I really need some firsthand experience of Asia before I end my days. It has certainly influenced my art, and it would be nice if I could return the favor. </p> <p> Half consciously I've been adjusting my style to that part of the rapidly emerging global art market. </p> <p> I first opened myself up to traces of my Asian self when I lived for several years in Chinatown. It was a thoroughly satisfying period. I could definitely do it again. </p> <p> It was fascinating being the noisiest, most hectic person in the whole neighborhood. Mainly because I'm a very quiet guy. But not as quiet as my Chinese neighbors. I couldn't figure it out. I never heard a peep coming from either side of my large apartment. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 13, 2010</h3> <p> I have a nearly universal sense of shame. Where it comes from is very hard to say. It must have a genetic basis, as well as an empirical one. </p> <p> I've heard that those raised Catholic are burdened by shame, just as the Jewish people are by guilt. I don't know if that's so, but there so few moments that I've experienced that have been totally free from an obscure, puzzling shame.</p> <p> Let me explain. The shame seems to be floating in the atmosphere, touching nearly everything, like a shadowy mist. If I'm a little off, and behave poorly, the shame quickly attaches itself to me. But if others are at fault I still feel their shame, and share it in some way.</p> <p> Even good actions, like giving money to the homeless or needy, doesn't rid me of the sensation. Maybe because of their unfortunate condition.</p> <p> It's as if I'm ashamed of life itself. I imagine the gods look down at earth, and feel shame. Earth is overwhelmed with problems. But earth can never be the whole picture.</p> <p> Now and then there is a brief break. Like the other day when I walked my grandson to the ice cream store, where he bought a kiddie cup of chocolate. It was sweet, holding his little hand, and slowly walking. </p> <p> Nietzsche speaks boldly of a time in the future where there will be a "beautiful shamelessness." It must be in the very distant future, because any attempt at shamelessness today is anything but beautiful. When you come across examples of it, you might get sick to your stomach. We're not ready for that golden time. </p> <p> Well, I had to get that off my chest. </p> <p> Went to the dentist today, and took care of my broken tooth. It'll cost me money I don't have, but it needs attention.</p> <p> Yesterday I had a nice talk with a Chinese woman. There've been several of them that have come in to the gallery. This is a new thing. In fact, I've never seen so many people from so many different countries. It wasn't that way ten years ago. </p> <p> I don't know if she is actually Chinese since she's from Taiwan. </p> <p> I get along with Asians. I think. I feel we have something in common. They're smart but not very high on themselves. The typical Westerner, if there is such a thing, can't possess a nickel's worth of talent without beaming with pride. </p> <p> We talked for 45 minutes. Her name, probably Westernized, is Angel, and so I pointed to a painting with a silkscreen of an angel blowing a trumpet, and the word paradiso under her.</p> <p> "What's paradiso?"</p> <p> "Uh, heaven. You know, like that symbol you have." I drew a familiar Chinese character with my finger in the air.</p> <p> "Oh, sky."</p> <p> "Right."</p> <p> She continued to stare at the word. Was she thinking, what strange people these Americans are?</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 12, 2010</h3> <p> Man, when's it gonna end? Several bad things in a row. Yesterday as I was about to drive to the gallery I saw that I had a flat tire on my pickup. </p> <p> I wrestled with the jack, getting needed help from my neighbor. Then it turns out that my spare was also flat. He suggested that I temporarily use one of his spares. We put it on. A forlorn looking thing, with the tread peeling off and making a slapping noise as I crawled down Whittier searching for an open tire shop.</p> <p> Car trouble, like dentist stuff, always happens on the weekend, when everything is locked up tight.</p> <p> I finally was told about one further east that was open, although I had my doubts I could even get there. But it would be very unusual to have three non-working tires all at once. I made it to the station, where all the men were watching soccer.</p> <p> It made sense, when I realized that the Latinos would cheer for Spain, just as I would cheer for Ireland. And they did. I felt bad tearing them away from the game, but they fixed the truck right away.</p> <p> I patched the spare, also, and bought another used tire for my neighbor, and had it put on his wheel. The bill was really cheap. Forty bucks. So I gave the guy a tip.</p> <p> He probably figures, hey, gringos are a good deal, while I feel that living in Boyle Heights is also a good deal. </p> <p> It was too late to drive to the gallery, so I stuck around the studio.</p> <p> Later that evening, I wanted a snack, and fixed a small plate of gorgonzola and a half baguette. The French bread was hard as a rock, and I gnawed it as well as I could. </p> <p> But then I discovered a chunk of my tooth. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, but couldn't tell where it came from. So I looked in the mirror. At least it wasn't my front teeth. </p> <p> Not far from them, however. The tooth after my canine chipped off, leaving a black socket. Half the molar is gone. I look like something straight out of Deliverance. I have to remember not to smile.</p> <p> I think I'll go across the street to the dentist I just met, when he considered buying my building. I'm sure he has Boyle Heights prices. It's even further east than Dr. Kim, my original LA dentist. There should be enough tooth left to cap the break. </p> <p> I meditated on this group of mishaps. Why do they come in bunches? Wrongness is part of a pattern, I guess. When one thing goes wrong, another is close behind. And another. </p> <p> Can wrongness be avoided? Can night be avoided. Or winter? Rain? Old age? Illness? Death? </p> <p> A laugh wouldn't be out of order. </p> <p> Wrongness is inevitable, but our view of it is a matter of choice.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> __________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 11, 2010</h3> <p> I've been thinking of the problem of surface treatment. This has been an issue from day one. A good painting will look good all throughout. Definitely this includes its final finish. It won't gleam too much, or too little. </p> <p> The degree of reflectivity in surfaces isn't confined to paintings. It's also a question in many fields, such as ceramics, wood, metal, leather, and even plastic. And it isn't figured out in a day or two.</p> <p> Monet promised a pile of his paintings to Louvre after his death on the condition that they were never, ever, to be varnished. He loathed glossy paintings, which represented the French Academy at the time. The academic painters embalmed their paintings in heavy coats of shiny varnish. </p> <p> Shininess is always a symbol of the newly rich. Poor people who've suddenly scored a heap of cash often try to transform themselves into their naive vision of wealth. Everything in their surroundings gives off an intense glitter. All is enameled, laquered, oily, even the inhabitants themselves. They become targets for satire. </p> <p> But I varnish my pieces. I use water-based varnish, mainly because it is easy to clean up, and dries quickly. It's a relatively new product, and safer for the environment. </p> <p> I don't use the glossy medium to impress, or help out those eager to raise themselves to a higher status. </p> <p> First of all, it protects the actual painting. It hardens it, and makes it last. Paintings are fragile things and could use some extra help.</p> <p> But then why use high gloss varnish instead of a matte finish? Well, for one thing, especially here in Los Angeles, but actually all throughout the world, the atmosphere is very corrosive. </p> <p> A high gloss varnish will give that wet, gleaming look as it is applied. But after a few years, even less than ten, the present atmosphere will eat away at the varnish and push it towards a flat look. A thirsty, rather dull look. </p> <p> I don't see how this can be avoided. The paintings are indoors, away from the sooty, smoggy, abrasive air. But still, they end up losing their original lustre.</p> <p> This will no doubt be a problem until stricter clean air laws are passed, and until the polluting internal combustion engine is retired. </p> <p> I think it would benefit paintings, and everything else, if the world outlawed all burning of fossil fuels. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> </h3> <h3 style="color: red"> </h3> <h3 style="color: red"> </h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July10, 2010</h3> <p> What is life? That's a puzzling question. How do you answer it? By appealing to science? An equation, perhaps? Or a biological explanation?</p> <p> Or maybe a religious interpretation. </p> <p> But to me there is a better way of answering. Life is a story. A long narrative. </p> <p> Yet if you were to say life is a dream, I would also agree with you. </p> <p> So life is dream-like story. </p> <p> When you dream and suddenly wake up it's often hard to put the dream into words. It seemed like an illogical, but fascinating story, and so you assemble what you can remember and make a story of it that tries to capture the original experience. It always falls short, being more or less true.</p> <p> When you define life as a dreamlike story it's only partially satisfying. </p> <p> Humans are the animal that tells stories. </p> <p> So who controls the story? The state, the church, the historians, the scientists, the intellectuals, the poets? It keeps changing, from era to era. </p> <p> Today it's up for grabs. The most believable story is what wins. </p> <p> My gallery is actually my life story. All the current paintings are how I see existence. Taken as a whole it's my response to the question what is life?</p> <p> Life is an endless unfolding of the sublime. I've added my threads to the unfinished tapestry. Maybe a striking patch. Something that helps, that clarifies the picture. </p> <p> Sold a few in the last few days. And put up three new ones on the site.</p> <p> When I work on three or four at once they will resemble each other. I suppose if I were to have a show of twenty they should all be made at the same time, over a few weeks, or a month. It would give an overall look to the batch. </p> <p> But I'm not interested in a show. </p> <p> I hope Jackie is enjoying herself. I'm having a good time, savoring my solitude. </p> <p> A few girls coming by in an hour to pick up a small one they're taking on a plane back to London. I had my shipper make a cardboard box with a handle. It should be easy to carry through the airport.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ___________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 9, 2010</h3> <p> "So Cloudy has a new home," Dante said.</p> <p> "Yes, a girl came and scooped her up."</p> <p> "She has two other cats so Cloudy will be happy."</p> <p> "Overjoyed."</p> <p> "Cats are nice, but I can't believe how much time they take up. I have Amedeo to think about."</p> <p> "I know. Animals are great, but pets not so much. This is my opinion. I'd like to see all animals free and living their own lives. No zoos, no aquariums, no cages, no stuffy apartments. Animal liberation. I think I'll start a movement. Stop eating them. Stop taming them. Stop owning them."</p> <p> "Two girls stopped by the gallery asking for a donation. For something. I don't know. The new subway system. I told them that I support a child in Africa every month, and it's more important to me than a subway to the ocean."</p> <p> "What did they say?"</p> <p> "They just looked at me and said, okay, thank you."</p> <p> "Dad, what do you think really happens after you die? Do you have any ideas about it?"</p> <p> "Yeah, I do. I feel that you wake up and carry on in a slightly different form. You get a new body but everything else is just the same as when you died. This life is just a learning experience. You start here, but you don't end here."</p> <p> "But how you can be sure of that?"</p> <p> "It's like a puzzle you solve. If you work on it, you eventually figure it out. Some people may think that I'm just deluded and naive, but I don't agree."</p> <p> "It's a comforting thought, and thoughts that make me comfortable couldn't be unreal."</p> <p> "A good way of looking at it."</p> <p> The other night I had a talk with Jackie about two emotions that I either seem to lack, or they're present in a very weakened form. Anger and grief. Jackie felt it was true of her also, especially when it came to grief.</p> <p> I can feel a rare gust of grief, but nothing more than that. It comes and goes like a summer shower. </p> <p> And my anger is gradually becoming as feeble as an infant in a crib. </p> <p> Grief over someone's death seems too much like a misunderstanding, and anger is like a burr that sticks to your pants leg. It doesn't belong there. It's not you. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 8, 2010</h3> <p> It was a fun birthday celebration. A dinner at Dante's, and then Jackie and I went to a wine bar and enjoyed ourselves.</p> <p> Wine bars are expensive. But maybe once a year I can take it.</p> <p> We ordered a bottle of Chilean red, fries, and a small anchovie appetitzer from this one place that specializes in tapas and imported wine.</p> <p> "How do you like it?"</p> <p> "Very good. Spicey," she said.</p> <p> "I don't get that feeling. It seems to have a hint of carmel," I said taking a sip.</p> <p> "We never agree."</p> <p> "We agree when it's good, or bad, but we differ on the rest. People are getting tired of the expressions you read on wine labels. They'd like more original descriptions."</p> <p> "Well, all right." She slowly drank another mouthful. And thought for a second. "I would say this is like a guy with b. o., but after a while you begin to think it's a very sexual smell."</p> <p> "That's better. I was going to say it reminds me of a woman who brushes against me with her boobs, and peaks my interest, but then goes home with another guy."</p> <p> We then talked about her trip, which she's explained to me a number of times. I tried to remember it clearly. A red-eye into JFK, then a shuttle to Hoboken where she's staying at the bride's condo. Followed by the wedding and a reception at Cippriani on Wall Street. The groom is a doctor. After the wedding she'll go to visit her parents on the Jersey Shore. She'll be back in LA in two weeks.</p> <p> "You look great. They'll go crazy over you back there."</p> <p> "You always say that. And they do, actually. But why would they go crazy over this?"</p> <p> She showed me a big hole in her sweater at the elbow.</p> <p> "If I had the money then they really would go crazy over me."</p> <p> "You know, I once had an insight about my physical appearance, and even my mind, and how I thought. My whole mortal reality. It was when I was about your age. I realized I was exactedly formed for what I had to do on earth. If I was better or worse looking, it would only make my life harder. The same might be true for you. If you were more beautiful, you wouldn't be an artist."</p> <p> "So I have to be ugly to be a painter?"</p> <p> "No, not ugly, but not extravagantly beautiful, either. I can't imagine Marilyn Monroe as a painter."</p> <p> "And if you were handsomer you wouldn't be a painter?"</p> <p> "Right. I'd probably be married to a rich woman and be out spending her money."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 7, 2010</h3> <p> Well, today's my birthday. I'm officially 69 years . . . old. Everyone wants to live forever, but no one wants to get old. But it's hard to avoid.</p> <p> I recall reading tales about the after-life. Where people can have their choice about how they look. Only a few liked the old, distinguished, white-haired style. Most would prefer their early twenties. I suppose I wouldn't mind the body I had at around 24. With more hair, though. </p> <p> Man, I quiver with horror when I see myself in photographs today. I even shaved off my beard and moustache, which I haven't done for about thirty years. And at that time only briefly. How can people bear to look without snickering?</p> <p> But I think I look a bit like an Irish Picasso, when he was in his seventies. Much taller, since the great Spaniard was only five two. Hah. A little guy. But a big genius. Oh, yes.</p> <p> I painted this morning, and they look quite good. </p> <p> I gave instructions to Dante and Jackie. No presents, no parties, no cake, and no singing Happy Birthday. Jackie ignored me, and started to warble over the phone. I stopped her.</p> <p> I'll be going to Dante's after work, at about seven. I'll have dinner. Hannah, Yo, and Amedeo will be there. </p> <p> After that I said I'd meet Jackie for a drink or two.</p> <p> "I can't have more than one drink. I'm leaving tomorrow for New York."</p> <p> She's going to a wedding in Manhattan, and visiting her parents on the Jersey Shore. She's at that point in life where she becomes very excited about travel. She's been packing for the last week. Doing laundry, having dresses altered, making herself as pretty as possible. And all on no money. </p> <p> I don't see how she does it. But I should realize that's the way I did it, too. </p> <p> I sincerely believe scraping by, making your art and only making your art, extends the life of people like Jackie and me. Neither of us can handle any kind of financial success. We become utter self-destroying maniacs with a few extra bucks in our hands. It's a shame, but facts are facts. </p> <p> Certain traits go together. Being liberated, expressive painters have a flip side. They become out of control in their spare time. The tension, concentration, solitude, and imagination involved in their work all lead to a dizzying release afterward. </p> <p> It would be nice to be able to paint and then live like a charming gentleman, but I don't think so. Not about to happen. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 6, 2010</h3> <p> When I was younger I often had this thought: I didn't know I had it in me. It was a time for self-discovery, self-expression, self-knowledge. I would find out a lot of things a lot of different ways. Generally, when I created something new. </p> <p> As I've become older I surprise myself less and less.</p> <p> I didn't know I had it in me. It was something good and noble.</p> <p> But today when I say that I didn't know I had it in me. It means just the opposite.</p> <p> It means I didn't know I <em>still</em> had it inside me. It's still there. After all these years of ignoring and avoiding it. </p> <p> I had hoped I left it behind long ago. But it's hanging around, in some corner of my nature. </p> <p> Some tendencies are really dug in deeply. Mediocre, corny, useless tendencies. </p> <p> But I just experienced a rare moment a few hours ago when I painted something that felt novel and worthwhile. Apparently I'm still revealing parts of myself to myself. This is the most hopeful of signs. Actually, three canvases, two large and one small.</p> <p> I haven't emptied my tank. Definitely not.</p> <p> But I've begun to wonder if a person's creative potential is limited, after all. What if my assumptions about my creativity are way off the mark? What if my best work is behind me? That's a grotesque thought. Atrocious. I don't know if I could carry on if it was true. </p> <p> I can't rid myself of the feeling that in spite of everything, I'm just getting warmed up, just having completed one of the final rehearsals. I'm greedy for the future. I've always been this way. </p> <p> I've lived patiently, but permanently expectant of things to come. </p> <p> They say certain people want everything to end: books, movies, jobs, relationships, friendships, work, travel, conversation........but not themselves. </p> <p> I'm one of those people. I, Patrick, want to go on without end. </p> <p> And, furthermore, I just can't ever see myself coming to an end as a creative being. Especially as a painter. </p> <p> To me a painter means to be eternally anguished about painting. </p> <p> As long as I can remember I've been dogged, harassed, stirred, flagellated, haunted, and urged on by painting. </p> <p> In all my moments, even the most blissful, peaceful, loving ones, I sense the presence of painting. Of unpainted paintings. Of making some visual, subjectivized object. And presenting it to life. </p> <p> Even those closest to me and know me the best are oblivious to this inner juggernaut, this maddening drive. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> ________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 5, 2010</h3> <p> "So how was your trip?" I asked my daughter. A friend paid for her and her husband to drive down to Laguna Beach and stay in a resort for a night.</p> <p> "Our honeymoon? Oh, it was wonderful. Seven years to the day. That's how long we've been married. Eleven years since we've been together."</p> <p> "That long?"</p> <p> "Oh, yeah, baby. And you know how people say it only gets better? Well, they're lying."</p> <p> "So true, so true."</p> <p> "But we're doing it for the child."</p> <p> "That's what I did. You want to give the kid a semblance of normalcy. And did you do anything about the kitten?"</p> <p> Dante decided that the kitten, Cloudy, wasn't thriving inside our gallery, and so she put an ad on craigslist for her. Cloudy is a her.</p> <p> "Oh, yes, and I received some responses. A lady is coming over right now. She said they were living in Westlake, but are moving to Beverly Hills."</p> <p> "I hope she's telling the truth."</p> <p> "Right. We want to make sure Cloudy has a 90210 zip code. Well, we saved her from death, and now she'll have a good home in a fancy neighborhood."</p> <p> "It's a beautiful story. I wonder if it can be made into a feature film? Speaking of fancy, how was the hotel?"</p> <p> "Magnificent, darling. They gave us room service, and even a $100 gift certificate at the spa. I got my hair and eyebrows done."</p> <p> "God, don't mention it to Jackie."</p> <p> "It was great because someone else paid for it, but I would never do that if it came out of my pocket."</p> <p> "Hotels are the biggest rip-off. After expensive restaurants. When I think of the money I've squandered . . . That phase is so over. No more absurd luxuries. Not for the rest of my life. I've reached the bitter end. Of certain things." </p> <p> "I need to tape record you when you talk like that."</p> <p> "You just wait."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 4, 2010</h3> <p> Something's wrong with my website, but I may as well compose my journal.</p> <p> "I'm buying this little one for a friend," Anthony said.</p> <p> "Which friend?"</p> <p> "Holly Woodlawn."</p> <p> "Warhol's Holly?"</p> <p> "Right."</p> <p> "She's still alive?"</p> <p> "The last of them."</p> <p> "Where does she live?"</p> <p> "Hollywood. Where else?"</p> <p> I guess I can put Holly Woodlawn's name on my list of famous people who own my work. My first transsexual. That I know of. </p> <p> I'm not going to the gallery today. Dante's out of town. It's a holiday. I haven't taken a free day in three months. I'm a bit fatigued. Not bad, though. </p> <p> I sold a bunch this week. It'll make a slight dent in my pile of bills. My credit is shot to hell by now. But I can live with that. No more borrowing. A bad practice.</p> <p> You know, when a person is tired of one town and he moves to another? A familiar story. Then he gets tired of that town and moves once again. But that, too, is unsatisfying, so he then moves to another country. And even one more country. But he's still restless and uneasy. What then? He decides that the earth is the problem. He'd like to pick up and rocket to another planet. </p> <p> The rise of science fiction took place in the first part of the last century. Right after World War I. And it really became popular after World War II. I don't think this is just a co-incidence, along with the UFO phenomenon. </p> <p> Humans are sick of this violent, chaotic world, and they dream of another. They want to escape, or be rescued. They've made a mess of this earth, and can't see any solution. It only seems to be getting worse. So, they quit trying, and fantasize about another existence. In earlier times it was heaven, but now it's some newly discovered, or invented, exotic planet. </p> <p> The dream is the same. They long for a purer, finer life, without, however, settling down and making this one, the only one they really know, the only concrete, genuine one, more to their taste. </p> <p> It'd be interesting if humans would die and wake up once again right here, but only in a slightly different dimension, where they couldn't experience earth as it now is. They'd carry on out of the range of human reality, in a parallel zone. Everything would be the same, except that any modification of human activity wouldn't be perceptible. It'd be like earth one billion years ago. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _______________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 3, 2010</h3> <p> When it comes to prices for paintings I have a life-long disgust with inflated amounts. It goes against my natural grain. </p> <p> Why? It's complex. It's not open to rational debate. Nothing can alter my attitude. I'm very mulish, obstinate.</p> <p> This fact affects my style. If I would sell a piece for a lot of money, it would be a far different piece. </p> <p> Expensive art sells way more slowly than its cheaper cousin.</p> <p> There would be an inevitable gap between payments. And filling it would require me to have a job. </p> <p> I'd rather be free and sell paintings inexpensively. </p> <p> That means I must make and unload a lot of them, even to live modestly in Los Angeles. </p> <p> I am a little disappointed in one of the paintings I worked on this week.</p> <p> "But it looks good." Jackie said.</p> <p> "Yeah, but it took too long to make."</p> <p> "How long?"</p> <p> "About five days. Although now I can make something similar in three days. Even that is a luxury, and impractical."</p> <p> Maybe Jackie could trim it down to two days. She's young and engergetic. She paints like her hair's on fire. </p> <p> I'm older, and inclined to stop and consider. When you're trying to evolve and not copy yourself, or anyone else, it takes time. </p> <p> A good painting is a fast painting, but not all fast painting is good. </p> <p> To be adept and clear about what you want to create speeds up the process. Until you eventually exhaust all the possibilities of that path. </p> <p> Then a lengthy, grueling contemplative phase begins. With no end in sight. </p> <p> But it's a question of your hierarchy of values.</p> <p> I value my freedom nearly above everything. People imagine they're free, but it's only because they haven't tugged hard on their heavy leash. </p> <h3 style="color: red"> _________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 2, 2010</h3> <p> That kitten is causing a bit of turmoil. He's very independent and curious. The neighbors keep bringing him back to the gallery where I sit typing on the computer.</p> <p> The implication is that the owner of the kitten isn't a very attentive fellow and let's the cat run wild. </p> <p> If Cloudy dashes out into the busy street outside my door and gets killed I can imagination what they'll say. </p> <p> I probably raised my daughters somewhat in the same way. I let them be themselves. At the earliest age as possible. Other parents weren't as relaxed about it as we were. It sometimes caused little problems. Especially at school. I'm glad the girls are done with their formal education. </p> <p> I nearly finished five pieces this morning. One of which was my best to date. </p> <p> The larger painting is the son of The Blue Door. One which I sold last week. It takes up where the other left off.</p> <p> "Do you like it?" I asked Jackie, as we stood looking at the propped up canvas in the back of the studio.</p> <p> "Yeah. It's good."</p> <p> "I'll tell you why it's good. Something only another painter would find easy to understand."</p> <p> "Okay, why?" She put down her brush.</p> <p> "It's invulnerable. You can't harm it." I ran my hand over the heavily textured, broken up surface. "Certain paintings are so sleek and smooth, but one scratch wrecks them, and they need the services of a restorer. That's my idea of a very imperfect painting. It also can take some specks and spots."</p> <p> The painting is very layered, very durable, and even a determined vandal would have to work up a sweat defacing it. </p> <p> It looks neither old nor new. Neither radical nor innovative. Neither revolutionary nor reactionary. Neither progressive nor conservative. It's just itself. </p> <p> It's much more abstract than figurative, but that's okay.</p> <p> One thing is clear: it's an improvement for me. It's better than what went before. </p> <p> During my abstract phase I quit too soon. I never really pushed them into something personal and imaginative. They were nothing but decorative.</p> <p> But this latest one is better, and has become abstract solely through my own efforts.</p> <p> A good art critic, with a strong art history background, could point out certain influences, could dismiss it with a shrug, but it'll be around for many years long after he's turned to dust. </p> <p> The painter becomes weaker over time, but a good painting grows stronger. </p> <p> I know that I shouldn't crow about producing something of value, but I feel I deserve a small pat on the back. I can get along without praise, but when it's definitely earned, well . . . </p> <p> A serious fault in my opinion: paintings that skimp on paint. Paintings that are too flat. Too fragile. Too tossed off, with no thought, no intensity. </p> <p> An artist has to take pains in order to give pleasure.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ______________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> July 1, 2010</h3> <p> God, another month gone by. I think it was a better month. I made a few good paintings. A couple of bucks. Kept my nose clean.</p> <p> I try to meditate on one clear thought every day. Really understand it well enough to include it in my life.</p> <p> Also, to paint. Not finish a piece in one day, like I used to. But maybe finish a layer, get it going in the right direction. I'm working on one right now. It reminds me of a sheet of bronze hauled up from the ocean.</p> <p> I'm trying to make paintings that transcend their era. I used to paint in a style that pretty much represented a decade. But that no longer interests me, if it ever did. </p> <p> "So how's Cloudy?" Jackie asked on the phone.</p> <p> "He just erased my blog."</p> <p> "How did he do that?"</p> <p> "He likes the computer. He steps on the keyboard when I type. I guess he thinks I'm his dad, or his older brother. He recognizes a fellow Darwinian."</p> <p> I think after studying Darwin I've become much more sociable with animals. I now recognize them all as distant cousins. I've had to modify my behavior toward them.</p> <p> I eat less meat. Only chicken now and then. No red meat. Fish is okay. Sushi when I go out with Jackie. </p> <p> I mean I wouldn't slaughter a cousin and make a sandwich out of him. </p> <p> I think animals notice my new attitude and approve of it. The kitten is quite taken with me.</p> <p> Jackie made a cool painting of a kitten a few years ago. I found a photo of one and made a silkscreen of it. She screened it six times and then added some words:</p> <p> "the sweetest pussies have the sharpest claws."</p> <p> It sold pretty quickly.</p> <p> A guy looked at my building this morning. A dentist from across the street. He has an office in a strip mall but is tired of paying rent. He wants to see if he can open up the front room and turn it into a driveway. The back room is more than large enough for his office. I wonder if he'll put in an offer?</p> <p> Jackie hopes he doesn't. She loves the studio for her work. I told her maybe I could then buy a small bungalow with a two-car garage. She could still have a place to paint.</p> <p> "It's too small. You know how small garages are in LA. You need a four-car garage."</p> <p> "It might be hard to find a cheap bungalow with a four-car garage. Complete with servant's quarters."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ____________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> June 30, 2010</h3> <p> "What's that?" Jackie asked, as she walked into the gallery.</p> <p> "It's Cloudy. Dante found this stray kitten. "</p> <p> "So you're going to just sit there with it on your lap?"</p> <p> "I don't know. It seems to like the idea."</p> <p> She picked it up. </p> <p> "Oh, it's so cute. I'm allergic to cats, but it's such a little guy. He's probably only a week old. Where did Dante find him?"</p> <p> "Some kids asked her if she wanted him. She said yes."</p> <p> "I can tell I'm going to get hives. I shouldn't be holding him. So where's Cloudy going to live?"</p> <p> "I guess in here. Anthony bought him some food, and stuff to get rid of any fleas. He says the kitten will be good for business. We should let him hang out here."</p> <p> "But what about at night? He's all alone."</p> <p> "Maybe he likes it that way."</p> <p> "What will he do all night?"</p> <p> "I don't know. Think about his life. How lucky he was to have escaped the pound. Maybe he's grateful. You're just recalling your own youth when your parents left you alone in that mansion and went traveling."</p> <p> "I think I am. I can't take him home, because of Brando. Oh, I've already got a hive. Look."</p> <p> "That's not hives. Hives are red and blotchy. I know what hives are."</p> <p> "Not mine. They're white. See."</p> <p> "That's a little pimple. Not a hive. You and your allergies. I'm not allergic to anything. I get along fine with all of life."</p> <p> "Why doesn't he go home with you at night?"</p> <p> "Me? No, he wouldn't like the studio."</p> <p> "That's cruel, Patrick. You should let him sleep at your place. It's perfect for animals." </p> <p> "One animal is enough. An old painter."</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> June 29, 2010</h3> <p> I keep thinking of my talk with Jackie yesterday. At first I was a little worried about her. I had sounded so many positive notes about ending it all.</p> <p> But then I realized that she never takes me seriously about anything. She's up at her gallery collecting a check today.</p> <p> Even so, I wondered how I could lessen the burden of frustration and regret about the direction of her life.</p> <p> I've heard certain remarks all my life. In former years I was guilty of the same kind of wrong-headedness. </p> <p> It usually takes a predictable form: if only I could have this I'd be happy. "This" is any number of different things. If so-and-so loved me, I'd be happy. If I landed this job, or closed this deal, I'd be happy. If only this pain cleared up. . . The list goes on, but the idea is the same.</p> <p> If only<em> this </em>would happen. </p> <p> And that wouldn't happen.</p> <p> But this never happens. This only happens to other people. Or even if it did happen, by some rare stroke, it'd never make you happy. This obtained only leads to another <em>this </em>out of reach. </p> <p> Anyone can be happy at any second in any place under any condition. </p> <p> And no one can be happy at any second in any place under certain conditions. </p> <p> What conditions make happiness impossible? Wrong evaluation. Wrong interpretation. Wrong handling of circumstances.</p> <p> If you don't grasp your identity you will never be happy. You'll miss the point of everything. </p> <p> If you don't know who you are you will forever be the puppet of your disappointing hopes and debilitating fears. </p> <p> If you don't know who you are, you won't know what life or death is. And consequently you won't be able see what either is worth. What the value of anything really is. </p> <p> Your estimates will be way off. What is nothing will seem like everything, and what is everything will seem like nothing. </p> <p> This failure leads to unreality. And an unreal life is not a happy one.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> ____________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> June 28, 2010</h3> <p> Jackie now walks over and visits me at the gallery. It's only two blocks from her apartment. About the same distance as it was to the old gallery.</p> <p> That was how we met. She came in one day, looking for a job.</p> <p> I told her I wasn't hiring. She called on the phone a few times, and then returned.</p> <p> "Can you stretch canvas? It's hard for a woman. They don't have as much strength in their arms and hands."</p> <p> "That's awfully sexist of you to say," she answered. "Of course I can stretch canvas. I did it all the time at art school."</p> <p> I eventually agreed to hire her, and she did a fine job stretching canvas, even very large ones. She's physically very strong.</p> <p> "What can I do? I'm bored. I have to go up to my gallery tomorrow. They sold a drawing. A check is waiting for me. And someone wants to talk about another Sid Vicious. But today I have nothing to do."</p> <p> "You can get me some groceries at Whole Foods. I almost have enough to eat, but I suppose I could use some more cheese. Gorgonzola."</p> <p> I handed her ten bucks. Whole Foods is two blocks away on Fairfax. </p> <p> "I know what cheese you like. You don't have to tell me."</p> <p> After she returned we had a long talk about her problems. The same problems I've heard about for almost ten years. I guess I was not as sweet about them as I usually am. </p> <p> We discussed suicide. I came out in favor of it. You always hear about how bad it is, how wrong, how cowardly, etc. But frankly it is a way of putting an end to your unsolvable suffering. </p> <p> "You're supposed to tell me that everything is all right. Not explain how suicide is an option."</p> <p> "But it is, in fact. If you really can't escape your suffering, that door is always open. I've always been able to figure out a way of getting rid of this or that</p> <p> cause of suffering. So I'm not suicidal. Not today, at least."</p> <p> "I've thought about suicide, but never tried it."</p> <p> "Me, neither. Not directly, that is. But when a person leads an out-of-control, very risky life, it could be considered as a kind of suicide one step removed."</p> <p> Jackie left, but I hope she's okay. She really is an exasperated, long-suffering type. Ostensibly, money issues. </p> <p> But she's able to find a solution, rather than go through that mysterious one-way door. </p> <p> Well, you shouldn't be afraid of facing all your choices.</p> <h3 style="color: red"> _____________ </h3> <h3 style="color: red"> June 27, 2010</h3> <p> It's a drowsy, mild Sunday and I'm sitting behind the desk at the gallery. It's hard to expect to do much business on a day like this.</p> <p> People amble in, with their hands in their pockets, glancing about, silently. And then they leave.</p> <p> I don't push for a sale. Not like I used to.</p> <p> "So, are you picking up some polyurethane tomorrow?" asked Jackie. "That last can was terrible. I couldn't even use it. I had to quit painting, and go home early."</p> <p> "Well, I saw the piece you worked on. It looks good."</p> <p> "Did you look closely? That stuff was like water. It dried so weirdly."</p> <p> "The painting looks good. In spite of the bad varnish."</p> <p> "Okay." She was mollified. "But you aren't buying it again, right?"</p> <p> "I'll get the usual kind."</p> <p> I never stop experimenting with new materials. New techniques. Even when it fails, it can be helpful.</p> <p> For example, a few years ago I tried something on a blank silkscreen. It was a mess. Jackie shook her head. But instead of tossing it in the garbage I just set the screen aside.</p> <p> A few months ago I pulled it out and tried something different. And it was a success. Jackie was forced to be complimentary.</p> <p> And also keep her mitts off my innovation. I never told her she couldn't copy my style, but she comprehends the situation. We often josh each other about these things.</p> <p> "I see you enjoy using my concept."</p> <p> "Yours! I did that years ago."</p> <p> "Oh, bullshit. I've never seen you do it."</p> <p> "I can show you photos."</p> <p> "Go ahead. I'm waiting."</p> <p> "I'll have to dig them out . . . "</p> <p> "Oh, right!" </p> <p> _________________</p> <h3 style="color: red"> June 26, 2010</h3> <p> It's been a fairly busy Saturday so far. I drove a painting up to a guy's apartment off Sunset. He said it was larger than he thought it would be, but I'm usually very dismissive of these concerns.</p> <p> Yet when I arrived and walked into his bachelor flat I realized he wasn't exaggerating. His place was bursting at the seams, with all types of art. I think if he shifts some things around the Miles Davis piece will be able to be squeezed in. </p> <p> Then I dropped off a desk in Los Feliz. </p> <p> I returned to the gallery, and talked with Dante for awhile. People have definitely been coming in, lingering, and saying they'll come back when they have some money. </p> <p> It's really a lot different than my last gallery, where every other person usually bought something.</p> <p> People are wary, stressed out, in debt up to their ears, fearful of losing their job. Their home. Whatever they own.</p> <p> But they still shell out. Occasionally. </p> <p> Another guy just bought a medium sized Miles.</p> <p> I think I have to make a few more musician paintings.</p> <p> The men like the musicians, the women prefer the word pieces.</p> <p> A pretty girl stopped by and we talked for around twenty minutes. </p> <p> "I'd love to live like this. Just painting and not having a job."</p> <p> "Well, it has its drawbacks. But I don't want to do anything else. Just paint."</p> <p> "I meet all these wealthy men, but you know what they tell me? They hate their lives. They want to quit and make movies. They have all this money, but they're miserable. All strung out on drugs. Always angry, at every little thing."</p> <p> "The richer they are, the angrier they become. At least I will die without any complaints. I may have ruined my life, but I did what I wanted to do."</p> <p> "Well, these guys ruined their lives, and didn't do what they wanted to do. So you may as well do what you want to do, even if it means ruin."</p> <p> Smart woman. Good looking, too<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 14px; color: rgb(255,0,0)"> </span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> ____________________</h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 25, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I see where that goofball Mel Gibson is fighting with his girl friend," I said to Jackie, as we painted. "What is wrong with men who can't get along with women? Are they idiots?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's the way women see them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's the way I see them, too. Especially men over fifty. Haven't they learned anything?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Young women are with them because they think by now they should be mature and responsible."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What a joke. They're just old. And the older they get, the worse they get. They're nothing but childish coots. They may have learned how to make money, but that's about it. Or not even that. So many men, and women, too, have missed the entire point. Their anger proves it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Man, if you haven't stopped yourself and spent many years "unlearning the evil" it'll show. Maybe not to your friends and others as twisted as yourself, but it'll show to those who know better. You won't fool everyone.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The evil is there festering in your blood, bubbling in your protoplasm, coursing through your darkened brain. But you don't see it. You don't know it. It's like a coiled snake, always ready to spring. But invisible, imperceptible. To those in its grip.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You can get through this entire life and not recognize your error. Imagine going to your grave thinking two and two is five. It happens to hundreds of millions. On a far more disastrous scale. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When you don't get enough air in your lungs, you choke and panic. And instantly do something about it.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But when a person hasn't bothered to unlearn the evil it can go unnoticed for a long time. This is what makes it so terrible. So catastrophic. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, I sold my two best paintings. My most recent ones. The Blue Door, and Human Desire. It's always a great sign to sell them while they still are vibrating with creative energy.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It feels good, but not so easy to be able to do better. </span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px"> _________________</span></h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 24, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I came across an intriguing concept the other day. It's just a few words. It belonged to an ancient thinker, and it was the prescription he gave his followers. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can't find it anywhere. It's unfamiliar to me.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's one of those brief statements that make me a little envious. Why couldn't I have come up with it? It seems near to my heart, and my belief system. If I have a system.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It'd make a great title for a book. A short volume of essays. A best seller. The author could go on television and promote it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Maybe I should just keep it for myself. And pretend that I invented it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I looked it up on google, and didn't find it. So it's probably lost to the world, this notion. But you hear echoes of it, now and then.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It would probably make a nice small text painting. Not like my usual ones, but striking in its way. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I could even see it as a popular tee shirt. Marketed all over the world, starting in Los Angeles. A revolution!</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The only problem is it's not mine. I've tried to stop myself from copying. Merely parroting other people's words, ideas, and images. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You don't get very far doing that. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Forever quoting, never to be quoted. A terrible fate. But rather common. Among scholarly types. Book worms. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Anyway, here is the concept. The command, actually. The commandment. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> 'Unlearn the evil"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That's a tall order. A lifetime task. Not to be taken lightly. Not for the lazy, mediocre, and timidly conforming. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's a worthy quest. For anyone. For everyone. </span></p> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3 style="color: red"> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 23, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Nothing much to report. Finished a Miles Davis painting. It might be hard to think of anyone cooler than Miles. He's the sovereign prince of cool.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">I can't imagine a conversation with him. He really was something. Yet we both were born in the same part of the country. Him around St. Louis, me, up the river in Iowa.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Somehow I think Miles would just stare right through me and not say a word. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Then again, he liked to paint. In his off hours. Maybe we'd have something to talk about. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">A black poet once defined cool this way: being unimpressed with horror.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">According to that definition I'm only partly cool, if at all. Although it's hard to say what he meant by "unimpressed". I don't think I'm that easily impressed with much, although I might pretend to be, now and then. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Lately I've noticed a gradual lessening of strong emotions in myself. My reflective, rational, conscious side has succeeded in taming my more obstreperous feelings. Anger, fear, joy, grief: no longer so overwhelming. If they ever were. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">My strong feelings, even though they break out from time to time, now seem as if they belong to someone else. I observe myself giving way to intense emotions. It's no longer the same. When you're a witness to yourself. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Evolving a cooler temperament usually goes along with the feeling that nothing much really matters. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">You learn how to care, but only to a degree. To the edge of a steep cliff. Then no further.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">It comes with age and experience. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">But I've noticed something else that comes with age. A difference in memory. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Memory begins as a porous fabric like cheesecloth. Nearly everything in childhood, remains. By the time you're forty memory is more like a fishing net, where only the big events are caught. In old age, the holes become even larger. Everything passes through and is forgotten. Memory then becomes like a country fence on a deserted property. It stops nothing, letting it all pass. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">I remember trivial things that happened when I was five, but forget relatively important stuff from last night. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 22, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">I'm in a good mood. I can't explain it except as a result of a morning spent effectively painting. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">So, as the years go by the pleasure I have in making a genuine piece of art isn't just idealistic talk. It does affect my feelings. Like wine, women, or money. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've managed to transform my life. I've moved it from the physical to the more intellectual. From body to soul. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Even though creating a painting on a blank canvas includes the use of my hands and eyes and the rest of my body, it's essentially a mental activity. A cosa mentale</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Average human beings only think back as far as their grandparents. And can only look that far ahead. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">A real artist, on the other hand, embraces a relatively vast stretch of time. He considers ancient, even pre-historic, art, and also sees far into the distant future. There is something of the prophet about him. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">The other day a guy came to the gallery and ordered a large Miles Davis painting. I thought for a second and then said yes. Because I can paint the great jazz musician in a new style. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">I didn't bother getting a down payment, to lock him into the commission. The gallery could use a few more musician pieces. Even though I need the cash, that's not the motivation.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">I started on the painting this morning, and am pleased with the progress so far. I guess the paintings will take a bit longer, but they'll be much better, and that is best. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">The guy is an actor and also does voice-overs. He was pretty breezy about the idea, and asked when it would be finished. I took down his phone number, and told him Thursday. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">We'll see if he shows up. It'll be done by then. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">Jackie has the flu. I'll check in on her. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> ________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 21, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">A large part of my life now takes place at Cloud Noir, our new gallery. It's great for slice of life stories. Just ordinary people walking in, and exchanging a few words.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">I try to listen carefully, and then recall it later, and maybe write it down. Portraits in words, not paint. Sometimes just a few sentences is enough. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A woman just left. I got up when she entered. She said, oh, you don't have to do that.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I was raised well. My mother would get angry if we didn't stand when a woman came into the room."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Then she sort of grunted. Maybe my explanation tended to make her feel less special. Like I always pop up no matter who or what. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I tend to explain myself too much. But I'm getting better at thinking before I speak. I have a long way to go. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A man walked in.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I used to clean here, when it was another business," he said, smiling.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "When we start making some money stop by again. Maybe we can use someone."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I also used to clean for Mr. Blah blah, the producer," he continued.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm half deaf. I just nod and say "wow." Wow is a very serviceable word. It just about covers everything.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And for Mrs. Jean Wallace. And Cornell Wilde. They call me The Cleaning Man." He named some other old time Hollywood names. Pointing out that one of them committed suicide. He put his forefinger in his mouth, like a pistol.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What's your name?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Calvin."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Calvin?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, I'm Guatemalan. But it's not a Guatemalan name."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You ought to write a book, Calvin."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> He laughed, and soon left. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It'd probably be worth reading. "If This Mop Could Talk!"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Think of all the untold stories. Millions. Billions. The air is thick with them.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> ________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 20, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I just returned from dropping off a huge, heavy table that we sold. It took three of us. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Tony, Hannah's boy friend, rode with me. He's an aspiring poet. And is selling his book at a store in LA. So we talked about the state of poetry for a hour. It was a long ride to a big house in Los Feliz.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Man, I can see the headline. A poet and painter drop dead of simultaneous heart attacks while making a furniture delivery."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We were worn out from the ordeal. No more huge tables. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I like a discussion about poetry now and then. Especially with a working poet. Not that they are always that easy to talk with, but Tony is. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I told him that I would like to have some of my text pieces on canvas cast in bronze, or even carved in stone. Just for fun. It can be done. All I need is some extra bucks.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I once asked a tombstone carver if he could copy one of my poems on a chunk of marble. He said, sure, why not? It wasn't too expensive. Around $300."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You live around the cemeteries," Tony said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I do. About three of them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I think my grandfather is buried in Evergreen cemetery. I've never been to his grave. Actually, Jelly Roll Morton is, too."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Jelly Roll. The name has a sexual basis. Maybe I'll visit his grave."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Tonight Dante is throwing a small dinner for the family. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'll bring Jackie. After I close the shop.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 19, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> There's a time for feasting, and a time for fasting.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The last couple of years are a time for fasting. Which is how it should be. I feasted for quite a while. Maybe even for the last fourteen years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And I put on fourteen pounds. Seven fat years followed by seven lean years. That's how it's been. But I had seven plus seven fat years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And I am now in the middle of seven lean years. I have about three or four more to go. And I hope to drop at least seven of those extra pounds.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sure spent a hunk of dough feasting. All those fancy, overpriced dinners with Jackie. I even realized at the time how I'd come to regret them. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm gonna hate myself someday for blowing all this hard-earned money," I said, scrutinizing another whopping, ridiculous tab.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie said nothing. She's a woman. And a young woman, who loved going out. Of course, I always paid. But she'd get upset if I so much as mentioned it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I had money a few years ago. Not much, but enough for restaurants, five nights a week. It was fun. I don't really have any misgivings. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It'll return. My solvency. And I'll probably spend it as carelessly as I did in the past. I say I won't, but I know myself. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One of my most enjoyable moments in life is sitting at a restaurant across from a pretty woman, and drinking a glass of wine.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's not at the very top of the list, but it comes close. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You can't really have too many of these moments.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 18, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, the Lakers won. The celebratory melee wasn't too bad. I actually went out in the front of my building and pulled a retractable steel gate across the door. I've never done that once in eight years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It wasn't necessary, but there was some boisterous activity further east on Whittier, my street, and the main drag from downtown through East LA. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I never cared much for riots. Especially after being in the heart of the 1992 LA uprising. Now that was a nightmare. It actually made me modify my philosophy. If you take away power from the police, as corrupt as they are, the situation becomes even worse. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Under a typical government you only have to fear a small band of malefactors. In a state of anarchy everyone has to fear everyone. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Human nature is not able to peacefully and judiciously control itself. Not at this time. Maybe ten thousand years from now. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Frenzied mobs are much worse than brutal cops. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It pains me to have to say so. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'd love to live in a world with no cops. Anwhere. But only if there weren't any crazy mobs bent on death and destruction. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Why does anyone fear death? It's pretty clear to me that this world is about as frightening, horrifying, and blood-thirsty as it wants to be. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Death will have to put an end to all of that. There may not be a heaven, but we needn't trouble ourselves about hell. Because we've already experienced it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Death is like going from a dirty, decayed, one-stoplight, hick village to a big, dazzling, energetic city. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can't wait. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Nah, that's not true. I can wait. I've got many more paintings I want to make. Before I pack my lunch and head down that highway. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I finally finished a piece I worked on all week. Which is very long for me.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's quite a luxury," Jackie sniffed.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's a luxury that's a necessity. By slowing way down and taking extra time, once in a great while, I now get to speed up faster than ever."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 17, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We're starting to sell furniture and paintings to the same person. Often it's someone new, who saw Dante's ads on craigslist. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I enjoy gathering a new group of collectors. I don't even have the addresses of former buyers. They have enough of mine already. Most people can only cram so many large, or even small, paintings into their world. It's not like buying tee shirts, or magazines, or bottles of shampoo. A few good paintings can last a lifetime. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "This one man came in and bought a desk. He said he'll be back for the Buddha painting. He needs to move in to his new house. He's an associate producer of "Get Me to the Greek.""</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Most of the sales from the other gallery were word of mouth. We never advertised, but neither did we have craigslist at that time."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "We still don't get much street traffic."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No. Only a few. The best advertisement is a satisfied customer. They'll pass it along."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie called.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't have enough gas to drive to the studio. I might make it this weekend. I saw your painting that you emailed me."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So what do you think?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I like it. But I feel the black text is unnecessary. It would be better without it. And why blue? I thought you didn't like blue."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I love blue. I always have. I used to collect Chinese blue and white porcelain. But you might have a point about the text."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You only put it in because you're insecure. You don't think it's enough otherwise. And you don't like abstract pieces."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Abstraction is great when it comes to the lesser arts, like ceramics and wallpaper. It's even good in painting, but not for the main look."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "A lot of museum directors might disagree with you."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So? History is on my side. Styles come and go. A painter today would be wise to create a beautiful dance between abstraction and figuration. And a good abstraction is infinitely better than a bad representational painting."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Is that stupid Lakers game on tonight?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It is. I should be able to get home without fighting the traffic. Or the ensuing riots."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Why do they riot, anyway?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, they love to make noise, cause a stir, light fires, shatter windows. It's the way the masses enjoy themselves. The revenge of the powerless."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The powerless? I should get in on that."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 16, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What're you doing?" Jackie asked, on the phone.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Still tinkering with that one piece."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The one you loved so much the other day?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, what happened?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I put it by my bed and when I woke up the next morning, I wasn't so thrilled."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Why not? What was wrong with it?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I still liked it. And you you would, too. But the rest of the world might think of it as a little dull."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And you couldn't sell it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, I could sell it, maybe not right away, but it was too simplified. Not enough drama. So I've been working on it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Are you pleased yet?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I am. That's why I called you. I feel great. Right this second."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But when you wake up tomorrow will the same thing happen?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I hope not. It has some drama now."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What's it look like?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, you'll see tomorrow. Here's the problem. I actually wrote about it yesterday. Painting today has lost its connection with the classic styles of the past. It's too pop. Or just boring. I've always tried to form a bridge."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You have?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, of course. Why do you think I use all those Renaissance drawings of buildings, the decorative flourishes, the Roman sculpture, and Greek temples? I can't pretend I haven't studied art history. If you know the past, you have a good chance of projecting the future."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I guess you forgot that idea during the Eighties."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I've tried out a lot of different styles, but pure abstraction is not for me. I think it's a mistake. A dead end."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I've always known that."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I certainly know it now. And it isn't really a case of not being able to sell a painting. If you can't, that doesn't make it bad, or good. It has nothing to do with money."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I think you're wrong there. When we paint we're always thinking of whether or not the public will buy it. You can't do otherwise. It's ever present. This thought."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Even if that's true it's not the chief reason behind painting. We want everyone to love our pieces as much as we do. Money merely keeps the wheels greased."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You can't paint without money."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Why not?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What're going to use for paint?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You can use your blood. Artists do that."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Now you're being crazy. I have to go."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 15, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> There are at least three kinds of culture in America today. Classic, Pop, and Non-culture. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Pop is the largest by far. It includes nearly everything: books, television, movies, sports, advertisements, etc. The culture of the masses. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The non-culture group, at the far end, would be comprised of uncurious barbarians, those one step above the animals.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> At the high end, also numerically small, are those devoted to what is called classic. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> These divisions are never clear-cut nor permanent. They are forever in flux, with the newer fringes always driving towards the center where they displace the older ruling culture, whatever it might be. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The classic likes to think of itself as timeless, and existing above the ebb and flow of change. But this is just a fantasy.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Culture is always on the move. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think of myself as a blend of classic and pop, in varying proportions. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Classic, for the Western world, is basically the Greco-Roman trunk, where all our institutions began. About 2500 years ago. Our esthetic was formed back then, with a few modifications. Today the classic has grafted other cultures on to its living substance, without losing its historical identity: Eastern, African, Pacific, Outsider, etc. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's become acceptable to tinker with both classic and pop and attempt to fuse them into a new wholeness. A total style which is still evolving, and nameless. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I spend my life grappling with this question. It's an interesting way to live. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 14, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Getting some odds and ends done today. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Am feeling less triumphant than yesterday. Which doesn't seem that unusual. But I'm still very pleased the newest painting and its development. It still isn't finished, but whatever I choose to express will look excellent. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It all has to do with the conditions I laid down for myself over the years. What kind of painting do I want to make? What represents my vision best?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> What about the basic questions of craftsmanship? Is the piece solid enough? Can it undergo all the bumps and bruises than inevitably will happen over time? Over centuries, even. Will one deep scratch be enough to ruin it?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Will the colors hold up? Can it resist being torn? Or vandalized.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> What about the cost of producing paintings in this newest style? Will they break the bank? Are the materials too pricey?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And is the style very laborious to undertake? Very time-consuming and tedious? Will it make me reluctant to start new ones? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Is the style capable of its own natural evolution?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> All the answers to these questions are exactly what I hope for. It's a direction I'm more than delighted to take. I don't even want to look back.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Everything I've made until this point was the best I could do at the time. But now I want to try something a little better. More refreshing, and personal. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When I say the newest pieces are my paintings I don't confuse them with being great paintings. But they will never attain greatness without initially becoming "my own." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have successfully dis-alienated the canvases. Purged the pieces of borrowings from other painters. To a large extent. To completely rid myself of all external influences is an impossible ideal. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> No paintings appears from nowhere. Every painting has a parent.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> They've reached a tipping point. They are more mine than they are in the style of another. That is hard to achieve. It was very difficult for me. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Tomorrow the realtor is showing my studio to a prospective buyer. We've dropped the price. Selling the building will help.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 13, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Today is special. If I was a mountain climber I would now be standing on the peak, taking in the total view, breathing the pure and serene air. And feeling on top of the world. On top of my life. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Why? It's because of a painting I've made. A painting that's taken a long time to create. 49 years, to be exact. I made my first charcoal drawing back then. My first adult piece of visual art. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But it was only mine to a very meager extent. I didn't even understand the concept of "my own art." I just copied what millions of others had done. I was an art student. Not an artist. Not yet. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Not, in truth, until yesterday.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've noted my progression over the last while. In this journal. Probably going back two or three years. Like a man starting out from a base camp at the foot of Mount Everest. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Slowly, painfully, anxiously, single-mindedly, I've advanced. Even the guides have abandoned me in my quest. I'm alone with my feelings. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It can't be invisible to others, but neither can it be as clear and revealing to them as it is to me. Someone may walk in my studio and stand in front of the piece I'm speaking of, and shrug his shoulders. "I don't see it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That's okay. It's how it is. This piece isn't going to cause delirium in anyone except the painter himself. Because it still reflects on what was, not what will be. The future is comprehensible to me, but not anyone else, as far my work goes. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But I can rest easy today. I can offer up hosannas to the gods. They've guided, coaxed, driven, and allured me for many years. And I can now humbly give thanks. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My life was not in vain. If I were to die today I could do so with a smile, awaken on the far side and immediately take up where I left off. My attainment can not be separated from who I essentially am. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Knowing yourself is knowing what you are able to do best. These two things are strictly synchronized. Until you actually do it, you are in the dark about who you genuinely are. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 12, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sold a small text piece yesterday. To a young woman. Always to women. I don't quite get it. Most are relationship oriented, but not all. I'll have to make a few more. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I also have a few sitting on ice. I now wait until they are as perfect as I can make them. Nothing can be added or subtracted. Until they're as compact and sparkling as jewels. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, that is so true," said another woman, standing in front of a different text piece. (he loved her most when she loved him least) A big seller. "This just happened to me. Again!"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Everyone can relate to this one," I said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What's wrong with you guys, anyway?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, I guess familiarity breeds contempt. It's been known for a long time. And distance lends charm. Also, rejection can be such an aphrodisiac. It drives men wild."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, but sooner or later, people have to become intimate."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I agree. But there are risks involved. This is my life story," I said, tapping on the canvas.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's mine, too, but from the other side."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I occasionally put my fingertip on something sensitive. It's has to be connected with a powerful emotion. And simply expressed, maybe years later. When the fireworks and smoke have drifted away and the sky has cleared. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A poet has to be knocked flat on his ass before he can sing his painful tune. A painful tune that gives pleasure to everyone, including the poet.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We're animals, and act just like them. Males circling and fighting for the acceptance of a female. They all can't be chosen. Those that aren't can become poets. Or painters. Or murderers. Or saints. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The same is true, however, for the ones who are chosen. That's often just the beginning of their sorrows. Of their singing the blues. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We're animals but creative animals. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> _________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 11, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "My sister wrote me from the set. She said it's very hot. She's miserable." Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Because she's not doing what she loves."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "She agrees. But she's writing. Better than hosting tables."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "If she's not writing what she loves, it isn't much better. When we paint what we don't want to paint, we might as well be driving a taxi. It does nothing whatsoever for our genius. If we have any left at this point. Or had any in the first place."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't know about my genius. I hope I'm making all the right moves. I paint what the world wants, but eventually I'll paint what matters most to me."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Face it, we weren't born geniuses."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I know I wasn't."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But I know what a genius is, and how he goes about it. That's something. You can't even understand genius without having a touch of it. A genius never swerves from who he is. Not for anyone or anything. He imposes his will on the world, and the world accepts it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Endless compromises and squandered time is not the way of the genius. Nor is he racked by doubts. He clears a path for himself right from the start, and the world steps aside for him. And soon follows him.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's not my life story. No, it's not. My genius may have deserted me long ago. Disgusted by my inattentiveness, my failure to heed its call. My thin connection with it, shriveled up. Along with the strong faith in myself it would have supplied.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But maybe there's hope. I'll try to draw close to my heart's core. While there's still time left. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 10, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante sold a few pieces of furniture today. So far she's sold more out of the gallery than I have. This is fine, and will help keep our doors open.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We have a two car closed-in garage in back and she wants to turn it into an apartment. It has water, but no toilet, sink, and shower stall. A guy can probably hook these up for a price and we can rent it to someone. People in this part of town are desperate for cheap places to live. It'd rent in a flash, and we'd recoup the remodeling money in a few months. It would reduce our own rent by a third.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I heard from a lady today who owns two of my pieces. She loves them and also reads my journal. It's gratifying to know these things. Artists always respond to sincere praise. They need it, and it's music to their ears. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For too much of my life what I do and have done seems somewhat futile and unappreciated. I really don't appreciate my own work. I'm a very severe judge of my own efforts. And if no one else ever comments on the pieces it tends to feel like a long, thankless, laborious existence. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I often feel like a man alone in an empty room babbling night and day to the four walls. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If, at the end of his life, Picasso, the great man himself, was depressed enough to ask out loud "what's the use?", just imagine what a guy like me, utterly anonymous, only modestly talented, and forever impecunious, might think. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> What a life! </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But no need to give way to childish self-pity. I'm a stoic thinker. Nothing matters but my inner adjustment and purified intentions. The rest doesn't count. It's only there as a test. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If it gets me down, it's proof of the distance I have yet to attain. I've made progress over the years. I'm not imperturbable, but much more so than I was at earlier times. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie thinks I'm the least judgmental person she's ever met. I guess this helps to establish my even manner. When you're busy judging yourself and not all your brothers and sisters it makes things more bearable. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 9, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I like the theme of unrequited love. All the problems, drama, and variety of complicated feelings . </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Most of life seems to be laced throughout with a sense that ideal love is lacking. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We don't manage to secure the little bit we really want, while at the same time receiving heaps of what we don't want. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even the deepest philosophy and the truest religion have trouble banishing this obscure disappointment in our lives. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> As if the most perfect love is a plant that never breaks through the ground into the sunlight. It lives and moves and struggles, but is pressed down and thwarted. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Anyway.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've always enjoyed reading. But only recently did I notice a hidden reason behind this passion. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It was due to a book I read online. I couldn't discover when it ended. This really disturbed me. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's also a feature of the new electronic books. You can't quite tell how long they are. A printed volume discloses its size immediately. Before it's even opened.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A big part of my pleasure in reading must be the consciousness of just how much time it will take to finish it. I never fully understood precisely how big until lately.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I naturally estimate the length of a piece of writing. Even a lengthy email has this characteristic. Poetry definitely. Any long poem sets off alarm bells. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yet, length is based on other things, too. A long letter from someone I desire doesn't seem long. But a short letter from a bore seems interminable. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When I pick up a volume of short stories I always read the shortest ones first, even if they're by my favorite author. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm consciously or unconsciously measuring the time anything will cost me. I must see the end before I begin. This holds true for everything. When confronted with limitlessness I feel queasy.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've had very rare days like this: I get up and go to my store. Persons from the past walk in. They stick around and we go off together and have dinner. The dinner stretches on, and we go to another place where people are celebrating. I meet someone else, and continue, with no end in sight. I spend the night in a new place. In the morning I go out for breakfast, and then a new activity is suggested. I continue on . . . </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This is very disconcerting. Such an adventure. Without a defined circumference, a final barrier that makes me turn back. I think most people would be very uneasy, too. It feels like a fall down a bottomless shaft, growing darker by the second. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The limitless has something diabolic about it. Groundless, unending freedom. It's nightmarish, terrifying. A form of disintegration. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Boundless opportunities." "Limitless potential." All nonsense. Just ways of talking. A pseudo infinity.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Boundlessness is the road to madness. Or something close to it.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's just as well we don't experience our ideal love, our dream partners, our absolute happiness. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 8, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A man walked into the gallery yesterday. An older guy. A jeweler. He was wearing one of his rings. Large, heavy, striking.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Gold is becoming very expensive," I said, making conversation.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It is. Are you the artist?" He indicated the pieces with a sweep of his arm.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I am."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Why are you so nostalgic?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't think I am. Although I suppose I paint images that are nostalgic to some people."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "There's nothing wrong with nostalgia."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Probably not. I guess I prefer using these women in my art because they were popular when I was growing up. It's when I really felt passionately about certain film goddesses."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "When your hormones were raging."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. I recall how powerful my emotions were at the time. The thought of these women was overwhelming. Volcanic. Convulsive."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Hah . . . convulsive."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm actually quoting from a surrealist novel. The poet said beauty must be convulsive, or it's not beauty at all."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But you're less so today. Less convulsed."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "True, but you never can tell."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If it happened to you once, it can happen again. At any age. So it seems. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can't say for sure. Not in the same way, and definitely not caused by the same person.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But no one knows himself that thoroughly, right down to the bed rock of his being. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Nothing is fastened down so securely, or built so perfectly, that it can resist the strongest tornado, the mightiest flood, or the most shattering earthquake. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Our unnatural attitudes can't compete with the natural forces. Sooner or later we find that out.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_______</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 7, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One of the more interesting things about having a new outlet for my paintings are the people I meet. I suppose I could be happy enough on a deserted island. But having new people come and go is also agreeable. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For instance, a woman timidly chose to enter the gallery a few days ago. She was old and frail. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, don't get up for me!" she said, as I politely rose from my chair.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She slowly walked around the room, peering at each painting. Taking her time. I stood by without saying anything.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That Miles Davis is good. The right colors."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She obviously still had all her marbles. It's not always so with characters from this part of town.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You certainly nailed down the faces."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I try."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What I mean is you try to capture their inner and outer selves at the perfect moment."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Not badly expressed. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She was stick thin, her longish gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. She reminded me a little of my grandma McCabe, if my grandma had embraced the bohemian life. We discussed the art for a little longer. She spoke in a very soft, shy voice that I had trouble hearing.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Women of my generation didn't have many choices. You married and had children, or else. The pressures were overwhelming to live such a narrow life."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's changing now."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, but too late for me. I'm 69."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I hope I controlled my features, because I was shocked. In one month I'll be 69. I was talking to one of my peers. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It was so unfair. This woman's life had reached the home stretch. But I was just revving up. I have plans, desires, dreams, energy, optimism. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So wrong. Time can be so callous. So brutal.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It soured me for the rest of the afternoon. I went home feeling somber.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But then it hit me. The woman was not telling me the truth about her age. It was impossible that she would have been in my same class at school. Unthinkable.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When do people stop lying about their age? She must have been 79. Maybe older. Not quite 89, but . . .</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Is 69 the new 39? Could she have seen me as much older than I am? Was she trying to appear as a younger woman to me? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I put that uneasy thought aside, and carried on. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 6, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Recovered from the other night. I just finished a meeting with my partners Dante and Anthony. We discussed the opening. We all agreed it was successful. People came, were pleasantly surprised and even a bit impressed. Also, they bought, and will continue buying in the future. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But it nevertheless could use some fine tuning, our gallery. We talked about the new direction. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It won't happen overnight. It won't be able to fully support the three of us any time soon.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So, I think I'll put my building back on the market. At a lower price. Hoping for a quick sale. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Why am I there anyway? Because it's a great studio, and it was a dream of mine. A huge studio that I owned and lived in. But that dream may have run its course. I figured out how to make paintings in a much smaller area. And be just as happy and productive. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie won't mind if I sell it. Neither will Dante. As long as I stick around LA. Which I'll definitely do. I could probably use a change. The studio was okay if I didn't have my foot in the public arena, but now I'm back again.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't want to inherit money from a parent," Dante said. "If I want money I'll make my own."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That's the best attitude. Let the world have a 100% inheritance tax. That'll make life better for everyone. No more shiftless bums parasitically devouring the fruits of someone else's labor. No more sowing, while another reaps. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Got to start on a new batch of paintings. Jackie also lucked out yesterday in her sale. A guy showed up at the studio and bought one of her best pieces for a song. But it helped her out enormously.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The band plays on . . .</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 5, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Whew. A bit fatigued today. It was a very festive Grand Opening. Lots of people. They kept coming in little waves. Not really squashed together, but definitely filling the small, narrow space. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sold a few pieces. One of them, a large text painting, to a famous producer. Anthony assured me he was famous, even though I wasn't aware of him. The guy behind "So You Think You Can Dance." And other shows.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm not used to talking so much. So much about me. And my work. The same questions kept coming up. What inspires you? Where do you get your images? Who writes these? Who's that?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If I ever thought it would be fun to answer Big Questions on the spot I guess such a time has passed. Actually, no one asked me anything that hasn't been asked before. And more than once. But everyone was very considerate, and many of the women quite fetching. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I used to love to act the gallant, pay little compliments to women. And fancied I was pretty good at it. I wasn't. Maybe refusing to flirt is actually more appealing. I really don't know.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have for years taken the advice of LaRochefoucauld who says it is important for attractive people to realize when they are no longer so. Not that I was ever attractive, but even if I was to a few, I am conscious that those days have gradually receded. Nor will they be coming back. Not in this lifetime. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And so I make the adjustment. The art must become more beautiful. The artist must go the way of all flesh. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It suits me fine. If anything I am a bit mystified if anyone can't see that. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have certainly had my share of emotional entanglements. Why would I want any more? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> With every day that passes I am more easily bewitched by painting. It ravishes me. It's not be resisted. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> People, on the other hand, well . . . .</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 4, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Almost ready for the opening. I brought nine new pieces to the gallery, and just finished hanging them. They look great, if I do say so. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante is bustling about, as I type. Arranging vases of flowers. Pricing the furniture. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Anthony picked up the ingredients for sangria. Inexpensive red wine, orange juice, rum. Dante cut up oranges and dropped them into a several large glass bowls. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How about ice?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's not necessary. You can serve sangria either way."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's hot outside, though. I can see people wanting to cool off."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'll get some bags of ice, and put it next to the sangria. They can use it if they like. I also made a quiche. Anthony wants some food. Also bunches of grapes. People like grapes."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, it certainly looks nice. I have no idea how many people will show up."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I was thinking," she said. "This could be one of the most important days of my life. I mean I've only had a few. The day I got married. And when Amedeo was born. If I would have known a year ago that I'd be opening my first business, with my father, and my friend, in June, I would have been shocked."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm glad you feel that way," I said, sitting on a bench and gazing down the length of the store. "Too many people wait for something to happen. But nothing ever does. You have to do something to bring it about. Think of all the times we just said to ourselves, let's do this. And it changed everything."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sold a text piece to a Saudi woman. That is pretty rare. She was very appreciative of all the art in the gallery. The text piece she bought was the one that says "I hope we last forever/ but que sera, que sera." I wonder if the concept is a bit Arabic. I know the second lines are Spanish, but they still have some Muslim influence. What will be, will be. It seems vaguely fatalistic, or perhaps predestined. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's ambiguous. What and who is supposed to last forever? A pair of lovers? Or simply one person? </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 3, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Getting a very late start on my journal. Too much happening in the last few hours. I live such a minimalist life. When a flurry of activity breaks in to my low key routine, I'm a little thrown. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I was thrown today. First of all Dante and Anthony, my partners at the new gallery want the walls filled for our Grand Opening tomorrow. I had promised they would be. But painting towards a calendar date is not that natural to me. In fact it rubs me the wrong way.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Just bring some pieces from the studio," Dante said. "Anthony loves them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, all right. But they're things I made twenty years ago. Maybe even earlier. I am fine with them. I put them up on my wall, and am content to live with them. I don't even see them as pieces for sale. Not after all this time. But maybe they are.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So I tinkered with them. Hosed them off. They were dusty. LA is so grimy. Varnished them. Loaded them on to the truck.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Right about then I opened a letter from the DMV. The people who tell you how do run your car in LA. Not a very popular group. My license was suspended. My insurance company didn't receive my monthly payment. I had to make a few phone calls. Century 21 didn't want to renew my insurance. "I'm sorry. Have a nice day."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I was thinking that suicide isn't really such a bad idea. My paintings are not going right. I can't even drive a truckload across town. I'm broke. Maybe it's time.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But then I stopped myself. After all it's not that catastrophic. I called another company. They'd be happy to give me some insurance. At half of what I was paying. I drove over to their office and put a down payment on the desk and signed the papers.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I then returned to the studio and finished a good large canvas.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Let's go out for pizza. This has been a tough day."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I didn't eat yesterday, so I guess I will. Also, you have to give me some money for gas. I don't have enough to get home," Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I counted out my cash. Just enough for dinner and five bucks for Jackie to put in her gas tank. It'll do the job.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I still need to work on some pieces. I don't usually paint at night these days. I'm tired, and the lights won't turn on. The electricity is screwed up. I have to drag the pieces to the other end of the studio.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's been a struggle. For the most part. Oh, yes.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 2, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I sent you an invitation to my summer sale. Tell me how it looks," said Jackie.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I logged on and checked it out. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It looks fine, but it's kind of odd that you would have a sale that opens on the same day as our grand opening."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, I didn't realize that. But I need to pay my rent. I'm behind. By the fifth I get charged extra. So I want to have people come to the studio on the fourth."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, okay. Everyone is scrambling to get their rent or mortgage paid." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie wants to try to sell her paintings at the studio at exactly the same time as we're having a party on Friday night. Her decisions are often impetuous and unilateral. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What should I do?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, I would have realized when my painting partner was having an opening, and I would have moved it past the date. But that's just me."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "All right. All right. I can change it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie's economic stress prevents her from thinking of anyone but herself. It's only natural. For certain people, especially if they're young. But it was a definite conflict. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I changed it to the fifth. What day is that anyway?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's on Saturday, and it should be even better than a weekday. Our's is in the evening, which is different. And it's on the Westside." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> There's no reason to chide her any further. Young people don't even suspect how self-centered they can be. I don't know what they call it. I thought I was just being confident and effective at that age. How wrong I was. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> There's three ways of going about it. You can be selfish, self-interested, or selfless.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A selfish style just makes problems whatever it does, and flounders. It can't get any friendly support going. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Self-interest splits the difference between the needs of the ego and the needs of others. It's the easiest, most practical manner. And leads to the greatest success.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Selflessness is for saints and prophets. It's better to just forget about that. Unless you're not of this world.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">June 1, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A new month. Haven't paid my mortgage. Nor any number of bills. Once again I've hit bottom. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> In retrospect, hitting bottom was like landing on rubber. I always bounced back, even higher. But I don't think this is a good strategy. I'd be a fool to count on it. Instead of rubber, what if it turns out to be iron spikes?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The future is not the same as the past. It's like the past, but that's as close as it gets. To be like something is also to be not like it. A statue is like a person, but not a person. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I don't know what will happen next. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or even five minutes from now. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm no happier or unhappier whether I have a lot or a little money. I always essentially feel the same way," I said to Jackie as we ate pizza, chicken salad, and shared a carafe of white wine yesterday.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's not how I feel. I'm going to have to get a job. Do you know anyone who needs help?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I was thinking of your situation," I said, after a pause. "You've been doing what you're doing for at least five years. I mean painting on your own. Making your way."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And about a year and a half before that in New York."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. Anyone who can stay afloat after five years can stay afloat doing the same thing for the rest of their lives. You've picked up the necessary tools, the know-how."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But I'm flat broke. I have nothing. If you hadn't given me five dollars I couldn't even drive home tonight."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, but it's not true that you have nothing. You have at least five or six great paintings in your apartment or back in the studio. Paintings are just another form of money. You need to convert them into cash."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How? Where? Who's going to buy them?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You must know someone. It's even worse when an artist is broke and doesn't even have any art to sell. That's really a desperate situation. I've been there. It makes me shudder to recall it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Maybe I should have a close-out sale. A moving sale. I'm heading back East."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's one way of doing it. But you can only do that once. You have to really move, or else never see those people again. I once told everyone I was leaving, and they bought everything I had, and I left town. But in five months I was back again. That was a disaster."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You didn't go back to the same people, did you? And try to sell them some more paintings. That would have been insane."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Actually, I tried. They slammed the door in my face."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Serves you right."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Being a painter, and nothing but a painter, is a hard life. No wonder VanGogh shot himself. And not just VanGogh. Pascin, Rothko, deStael, Gorky, Lembruck, Frida Kahlo, and many others. Not only the famous ones, either. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A spare-time painter is probably a safer choice. And it's twice as hard for a woman painter. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 31, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sold two pieces yesterday. To an intelligent young writer. She liked the paintings with words. A lot of writers buy my work. They appreciate the play of language and meaning.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One of the purchased is the black-white piece that is perhaps one of my most original. It can only be digitally printed. I tried to make silkscreen of it, but the gradations were too subtle. I printed a very large one about a month ago that I still have laying in my studio, unstretched.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The writer wanted a smaller version, so I just finished printing it. I couldn't adjust the canvas to the software and ended up making an extra copy. I think I'll bring it to the gallery for the grand opening.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The black-white piece tries to show how interconnected two extremes can be in reality. By changing a letter at a time and deepening the foreground while simultaneously lightening the background, and vice versa, the concept is revealed. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I believe every school in America would benefit by having one of these paintings hanging somewhere in the building.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The black-white painting shows how the so-called black and white races actually partake of each other. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But that isn't the only point that is being made. Duality of any kind embraces and contains a part of its opposite. Like yin and yang, male and female, earth and heaven, straight and curved, light and dark, good and bad, life and death, romantic and classic, Apollonian and Dyonisian, parent and child, etc. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie wants to go out for an inexpensive dinner. She feels it's a holiday and she has every right to be celebrating. I guess if someone else asked her to join them she'd be just as happy. But they didn't, and so it's up to me. I get the feeling with her that the situation is much more important than the person involved.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But maybe I'm wrong. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One of the most disconcerting things in my life is when I see my successors to the women I've known. Many of the women struggled daily to persuade me that I wasn't the best deal they've ever made. I had a hard time disagreeing with them. I often told them that they deserved better. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But looking at some of their subsequent choices has caused me to wonder. Some of the men have been fine. An improvement on me, in some elementary sense. At least for them.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But this has been rare. More often than not my former women pick obviously average types, which only plunges me into a state of profound doubt. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Taking everything into account, was I the best they could do? This thought makes me very uneasy. It would be better if I was the worst they ever had the misfortune to come across. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It would raise them to a higher level in my eyes. And, therefore, make me feel better about who I am. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I wouldn't mind going to a party where I am the ugliest, stupidest, and least gifted person in the room. It would be like dying and going to heaven. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> _____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 30, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It feels good being out in the greater world again. My studio is a large building, but in comparison to LA it's like a solitary confinement cell. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I now see my family with regularity. Hannah just left the gallery. She's a pleasure to talk with. I can't believe she's turning 40 this summer. She looks and even acts 30. She must have formaldehyde running through her arteries. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I finally know what women want," I said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "All right. What?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "More sushi."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Actually, I think it comes down to sweets," Dante said. "Women will talk for a half an hour about what cupcake tastes best."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> These general questions always end up being individual. Part of some private experience. I know Jackie would like more sushi. And less football. I enjoy watching football. Too much. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I've had it with this city. My landlord just raised my rent another $150. I think he wants to get rid of me. I'm always late. When I go to the East Coast for the wedding, I may not come back. I'm serious about it this time." Jackie said. She now visits me at the gallery, where we kick stuff around. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Maybe you need a break."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I do need a break. I really do. Nine years of painting without a break. I can't put in another year like this one."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, you didn't waste your twenties."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I didn't waste them. I must have made and sold over 1000 paintings. If I count the ones I made for you."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I believe you did. But life doesn't follow a staight line. It won't kill you to knock off for a while. It didn't kill me. Man, I realize now that I wasted my twenties. I'm making up for it, though."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think Jackie has a rendezvous with her unique destiny. Life can never be figured out in advance. Even the wisest are often knocked sideways. And not just a few times. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> An image of an individual life would look more like a snarled fishing line rather than a chalk line pulled tight. Or a winding mountain path. Or a zig-zagging sail boat. Anything but a simple straight line. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She'll do fine, whether she leaves or stays in LA. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Me, I'm sticking around . . .</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 29, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A beautiful day. Even the homeless look happier. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I couldn't decide whether or not to turn on the ac in the pickup. I rolled down the window for a few miles. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> As I was driving to the studio I pulled over to the curb and bought a hand forged iron wine rack for a few dollars. It might look all right sitting on one of the tables. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yesterday I bought some coffee table art books to the gallery. I have stacks of them gathering dust in the studio. I used to pick them up at junk stores and garage sales. Never paid more than ten bucks. They're more expensive, as a rule. Big, heavy books with glossy color reproductions. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Those look good," Dante said, as she walked in.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Funny thing, though. A guy came in here and mumbled that it was the right vibe. Stan Getz was playing some Brazilian jazz. And then he stood there for twenty minutes reading one of the books. Like it was Barnes & Noble."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "If one of our neighbors moves out we should rent their space and make a cafe out of it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "We could do that. Break through the wall and connect the two shops. Yo's dad could come out here and open a little restaurant."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He'd love that."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Johannes' father had several restaurants of his own. He's a European chef. Now he just manages restaurants in New York. But he's probably tired of working for others.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Some people hate and fear striking out on their own, others are unsuited to working for others and would rather die first. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm unemployable. I haven't worked for others for over forty years. I wouldn't even know where to begin. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I wonder about Jackie. She liked working for me. But an artist can only do that briefly. It stops them from being who they are. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Better to walk around in rags and starve, being true to yourself, than loll about in silks inside a mansion trying to be somebody else. Jackie understands this. Even though it's a very hard lesson.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Pity the human who has a gift, but has failed to live it. It can be very corrosive unless it's expressed. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Luxury makes me uneasy. Just as my very simplified lifestyle makes others uneasy. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> _________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 28, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I once looked on as my friend, a very fine sculptor, decided to build a sailboat. Another friend and I watched as the artist furiously worked the wood into place. Afterward, as we walked back to the car, he said "that may be how you carve a statue, but it's no way to build a boat."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Because you know how to do one thing, it doesn't smoothly crossover into another thing. Different principles apply. You're a master here, but a rookie there. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My brother, another artist, tells of the time when he disassembled his new bike and painted it. He started with 246 nuts, washers, and screws, and ended up with 173. Our dad shook his head and said, with disgust, "you can't make it any better than it was when it was brand new."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That is certainly true in almost everything. But not art. I finished several pieces, and they came out beautifully. But actually they aren't as good as they might look. Well-crafted, excellent products, in particular art, can be improved with time. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Consider a Shang Period bronze incense burner that's been buried for a few thousand years and then dug up. I would say it's never looked better than with its encrusted green patina. An improvement on brand new.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've painted several of these pieces using time itself as one of my major tools. Time defaces mediocre art, but it enhances good art. Time is a collaborator, a shrewd assistant, a powerful tool, a far-seeing friend, in the creation of a work of art. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You have to plan wisely when you take the omnipotent and universal action of time into account. Especially with something as fragile and perishable as painting. You must guard against inevitable accidents, and even deliberate vandalism. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> An obvious way to defeat the vicissitudes of time is through quantity. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Take a lesson from the animal world. A female tortoise, or alligator, might lay over hundred eggs every season, instinctually knowing that only a handful of her offspring will make it to adulthood. This is very common among animals. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Paint thousands , not dozens. Carve hundreds, not a handful. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> After quantity there are many other strategies an artist can employ. Some are more effective than others. Quality, of course, is solid concept. If something is treasured in one era, it will be treasured in another. This defintely helps in the quest for survival.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But quality isn't without its perils. Not long after he died, Bach's hand-penned manuscripts were used to wrap fish. Everything goes through a junk phase. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 27, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I put the Grand Opening invitation on the web site. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So how does it look?" I asked Dante.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Perfect."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "With the three of us working on the party it should turn out."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, Anthony loves parties. I'm sure it'll be a success."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's not a very big space. I hope it isn't too crowded."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's a problem we've never faced. In twenty years of living in LA our parties are never too crowded. Remember when we gave that one party and no one came but ourselves? Even though today we know a lot more people they never all show up at the same time. Whether it's at my house or the gallery it's never packed to the rafters."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm working on seven new pieces. I brought a small one to the store. I really shouldn't rush them from the studio over to the gallery. In the past I would do that, only to see where I missed a spot, or should have reworked something. Then I'd load the canvas into the truck and take it back to the studio and continue tinkering. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> From now on I'll sleep on it. With each new piece. It's amazing how often I catch some imperfection that way. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The last few pieces are the best I've ever done. I have the feeling this latest trend will continue for awhile. It feels right. I can sense a more effective, more personal, more artful, style emerging. Gradually, organically, unstoppably. Just the way I like it to go. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's still in the larval stages. This improved technique. I'm easing into it. But by intense hard work. I've been stiff for over a month. This is the price of sitting around wrestling with concepts instead of actual physical labor.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> How do I manage to change? When it becomes boring, tedious, unmeaningful . . . that's when I slowly set the wheels moving. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This leads to a long, dark, miserable, phase, where I search frantically in every dusty corner of my being, overturning everything in the desperate process. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But suddenly, faint light creeps in through the windows. It grows brighter by the day. It's a new dawn. I've changed.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> _______________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 26, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Sunny and windy. The tops of the palm trees are swaying. The light reflecting off a blank canvas in the sun is blinding. We have to stop everything when we walk into the darkened studio, after plastering the undercoat in LA sunshine. Everything is suddenly so black. It makes your head swim.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A revelation is like that. So much light leads to temporary confusing blindness. You don't know what to do for a time.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Nothing much to write about. Jackie's sister is in town. She's well off. Staying in Beverly Hills. She'll take Jackie out to dinner, and maybe buy a painting. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I started four small ones and am trying to finish two large ones. I think I may be very unusual for a painter. That is, I have such different goals than the others. I want to paint faster and more zestfully and sell them for even less money. If I really enjoy my painting then money fades into nothingness. I'd even give them away, except for having bills to pay. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It almost feels like a crime to charge a lot of money for a painting that has given me such pleasure to create. It should be a gift. To life, to existence itself. It's the result of a gift, and it could retain its gift status. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have nothing further to write. But I can always tell a story. I could have been a writer of stories. A special kind of story, that comes to me out of the blue. Some call it "metaphysical fiction."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This one came to me yesterday afternoon as I was driving on the freeway. Maybe I remembered it, maybe I just dreamed it up. I can't say for sure. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Imagine an older man. Retired, living in a small, peaceful village. In New England. He sits in his study and reads, putters in the garden, or looks forward to his meals. And he's fond of hearing a distant church bell. It rings every fifteen minutes, and on the hour. It strikes the time on the hour. One, two, three, four. He counts them. He's happy.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Then one day at seven o'clock one evening, the bells struck eight. He was sure of it. He glanced at his watch. Seven. He mentioned it in passing to his wife, who said nothing. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Then the following day there was only a ten minute interval between 6:00 and 6:15. They must be having a problem at the the church, he thought. They'll get it fixed.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But they didn't. The bells rang nine times even though it was only 8:34. He shook his head, mildly annoyed. Perhaps he could pay them a visit?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Early in the morning he distinctly heard five gongs followed 23 minutes later by six gongs. But maybe he had drifted off to sleep. Still . . . why don't they do something?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Later that day the intervals decreased even further. For some reason he didn't bother talking about it to his wife, who was often gone, attending to her own things. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> He suddenly realized that he didn't even know where the church was located in the village. Was it even a church? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The hours now began to strike quicker than ever, but still in orderly succession. He sat in his armchair, stupefied. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A strange thought occured to him. Is this the end of time? My time? Is this how it happens? Or is this how it happens for me?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The bells now clanged every few seconds. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And finally they fused into one long reverberating blast.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And the man died. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> ______________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 25, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I added the two most recent pieces to the site. Every time I add one, I delete another. Eventually I only want to show what I have on hand, immediately available. But too many to see is almost as bad as too few. We can only take in so much at one time. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I arrived at the gallery and Dante said we just sold two of my paintings. I guess it's starting.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Apparently nature does hate emptiness.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So who bought them?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, this young girl. She said she's been living with blank walls for so long, and she's sick of it. She said she finally had a few extra dollars to spend."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "My best clients."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Young women?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "For some reason they seem to like what I do. That's definitely fine with me."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So much contemporary, avant-garde, experimental art is made by young men for other young men. No wonder they can't make a go of it. Lots of skulls, monsters, dripping blood, cartoons, sci-fi stuff. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Men have trouble getting in touch with their deeper more sensitive side. Too much posing. Too much fear. Too much laughable machismo. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But I'm working on a new piece that might appeal to some guy. I try to have at least a few images of men sprinkled among the beautiful women. I don't mind violent imagery. Especially if it's drawn from old films. There's a place for it in painting.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The sublime is my first choice, but tragic comes in second. Both can be moving and desirable. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The other day an art appraiser came in. We talked for a while. She used to manage a fancy gallery not far from here.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "People are always writing me and asking about the value of a painting of mine that they own."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Send them to me."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I suppose I could. Value. It's a huge, complex area."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's worth what they paid for it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, they don't want to hear that. Some go back twenty, thirty, and even forty years. They want it to be worth much more. But that's not the point. You can't explain that to them. Value is more than the monetary price. It can be psychological, emotional, spiritual, cultural, historical . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, they don't care about that." </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 24, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Ran around this morning. Rushing always leads to mistakes. But I think I caught myself in time. I left my keys in the door, and couldn't drive away. I should make an extra set just in case. It was a warning.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But I completed two good large paintings. I'd worked on them for a few days. I'll put them on the site by tomorrow. One is different. I've made it before, but always with a musician. I left the imagery out. The background and the text are enough.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The text is a combination of my words and some words from an old blues song. Very funky. Jackie hates it. But a lot of people like it. I like it. It reads: if you lose your money, please don't lose your mind, and if you lose your honey, please don't mess with mine.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I added the second part of the verse. I don't know how I came up with it. Maybe I heard something like it in a forgotten song. Maybe I didn't. Sometimes it's hard to say. Just as it can be hard to decide whether you dreamed something, or actually experienced it. Memory is a prankster.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Nature abhors a vacuum. I hope this is true, and not just talk. Because nature must really loathe my bank account. It's as perfect a vacuum as I've had in many years. Does this mean that nature will hurry to fill it up? Maybe. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's happened in the past. Not a stream of coins magically flowing into a dry lake bed. Out of nowhere. No, I've had to work hard, and bit by bit clear up the problem. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think it's a characterological situation. It's my nature to let things go to the very last second. Just as the ship is leaving I leap on board, hanging by my fingernails. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Patrick likes to almost run out of gas before he stops. It just makes everyone nervous. Why is he that way?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's one of my life's many riddles. The answers are in the back of the book. You get to read them after I croak. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Someone called about ordering paintings. A group of them. This could be a good sign. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 23, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Messed with the web site yesterday. Eliminated one page, and added another. I want everyone who'd like to check out our world to come to Cloud Noir, on 8044 W. Third. People never cared much for driving to Boyle Heights. I think this new location is more central.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My days and nights are now falling into a new pattern. I paint in the mornings and watch the gallery from three to seven. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A writer once claimed that working three hours a day is all that is necessary for a successful life. It sounds right to me. Three solid hours of mental and physical application. For a writer that means being at the keyboard hammering away, or at least have a pen or pencil in hand and putting it to paper. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For a painter three hours of work means brushing paint on to canvas or something similar. In neither case does it mean talking on the phone, sipping coffee, or cruising the net. That's not work. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For creative types work means a perceivable process of starting with almost nothing and ending with something. Something you can touch with your hand, see with your eyes, or hear with your ears. Daydreams, even intense mental searching, doesn't count. That goes on all the time. That may be preparing to work, but it's not work. To me. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Rising in the morning before eight gives me plenty of time for a full work day of painting. I get going, really going, around ten. That is, I have a brush in my hand, or a trowel full of plaster, or a silkscreen under my arm. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> By one, I'm more or less finished. By two, I'm definitely finished for the day. Sitting at the gallery and writing this doesn't qualify as work. It's just a way to empty my cup of excess energy. Energy that was called into action by painting. It's still circulating in my being. It'd like to get it out. Possibly to relax.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's a great day of painting when one piece is entirely done. I can step back and approve it. But sometimes I have three or four underway at the same time. Usually that's how it is. So a day may pass with nothing new to hang on the wall. It's not the end of the world. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A woman stopped by and carefully examined the paintings. Why don't I sign them, she asked? I do. I sign them on the back. I've always done it that way. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Signatures can hinder the esthetic response. Maybe they can add to it occasionally, but most art, throughout history, is anonymous. Mine don't go that far. But anonymity may actually intensify emotion. On a great piece. It forces you to wonder. Who made this?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Did the creator god sign his creation? Maybe. But it's not obvious. You have to look for it. It isn't the first thing you see when you open your eyes to life. His signature is obscure, even hidden.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 22, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> As I was opening the front door to my studio a young girl walked up to me.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Could you give me $1.50 so I can buy a soda?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I turned to her. I can't believe how many ordinary citizens have approached me over the last year asking change. Even more than change. A dollar. Five dollars. Ten. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A soda. Why not some fruit juice at least? Even a beer is better than that sugary crap. An imported beer, that is. A Negra Modelo would be nice. But she was just a kid. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Panhandlers appearing in all sorts of public places. Parking lots, sidewalks, gas stations, even inside supermarkets. And often young school girls. Very odd.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I fished around in my pocket for a few quarters. I had more than that on me, but what is a high school girl doing begging on a Saturday morning?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I gave her fifty cents.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What does your tee shirt say?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She stretched it out so I could read it: I didn't plan to be Mexican I guess I'm just lucky. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Not just Latinas hit me up for spare change. White girls and black girls, too. So far no Asians. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yesterday at the gallery we had more people come in. A woman spoke to me, pointing at a painting.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Someone gave me that one for my birthday. I love it. But, you know, I'm embarrassed to admit, but it reminds more of my dog than my husband."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This was the piece: </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> all</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> of</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> his</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> steps</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> led</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> only</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> to</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> her</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> door</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He was such a beautiful dog. He died, and I miss him so much."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How old was he?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Eight."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's not very old for a dog."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She fumbled with her cell phone. "I can show you his picture."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He looks like a nice dog. What kind was he?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "An Irish wolfhound."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, that's a great dog. Pretty rare, actually. Huge, but gentle. Especially with kids."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes," she sighed.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can make a painting of him." Just like that. I offered. I'd sworn off dog portraits. But I often say just what I promised to never say again.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I have so many pictures of him."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Bring one by sometime."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I might just do that."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 21, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "My tv and my laptop are turned off. I want to watch The Office finale. What can I do?" Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, you could watch at the studio. We can have some pizza first. We haven't done that in a long time."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I now get home a little before eight. Jackie painted, and then caught up on her mail and waited for me. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We then hit the Mexican pizza joint.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The guy seems like a different man. I've never seen him smile."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's because his child, or grandchild, is here. He keeps going over to the booth and playing with him."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One of the managers always acted so glum, so taciturn and remote. We wondered what it could be. I surmised that he was religious, and somehow disapproved of us, and everything in the world. Anything outside of church. But it turns out we were wrong. He simply missed his family, who are probably living out of the States. Tonight he was positively giddy.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It just goes to show . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That people have something on their minds," Jackie said. She kept checking her watch. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's so different today. We used to eat Chinese food and hurry off to see a movie. Now we just go home and watch a favorite tv show."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What dumb movies did you watch?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't know. Sometimes art films. European ones."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Borrring."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We got back to the studio and situated ourselves.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Don't talk during it," she said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And don't laugh at the wrong times."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It was an okay episode. Not that funny.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The whole thing just wanted to tell us the Holly will be coming back."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 20, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I just arrived at the gallery. The new schedule is still a little confusing. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie and Dante just left. Jackie loaded some wood I bought for stretchers. She put it in her pickup bed. Jackie, Anthony, and I all drive pick-ups, which are a necessity in LA. If you're an artist, or sell furniture. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I just received a note from the friendly journalist who stopped by the other day. She wrote an article on the gallery. Check it out at mondette.com. I'll have to thank her for it. Everything helps. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I now paint in the mornings, and today was a good day. I covered over two old larger canvases. And I'm glad that I did. The newest style looks better than ever, and I'm just limbering up. It has real potential. Actually, I sold the first one in the new style yesterday. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm exceptionally clear about what is mine, and what has come from somewhere else. Some other painter. I have an irresistible drive to sift out all alien influences from my work. This is a gradual, ongoing process. It has taken a long, long time.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even the smallest discovery leaves me almost joyful for days, even weeks. It's the closest I ever come to serenity. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When I say discovery I mean something almost accidental, an odd mistake, something that catches my eye, something not from any art that I admire, something that happens in solitary depths of my studio, or during a silent moment of contemplation. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Best of all is when I notice an attractive effect on the canvas. I stop and gaze at it. What is it trying to say to me? I wrestle with its hidden meaning. I know without a doubt that it's mine. But does it have a future? Can it become part of my destiny? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This doesn't occur very often. It's rare, fragile. It wants to curl up in a ball and hide. It seems to chide me. "Can't you believe your own eyes, you dope? What does it take? Better realize this opportunity. Or else . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm not a very smart man. I never was. I'm sure it's cost me dearly. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But the universe is more merciful than I once believed. And so patient. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 19, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Will do a little work on the gallery. I'm almost done with another little text piece. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Business is dead. But I can still paint. And even do better paintings than ever.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That guy didn't cut the check. I'm fucked. I was really counting on it," Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What's his problem? Doesn't he want the painting?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He swears he wants it, but he's going through a divorce, and he's being sued by his ex-wife."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can't see how that matters. He can't buy anything for his new home?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> How often we count our chickens before they hatch. It's only natural. I don't have any work for Jackie, however. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I didn't explain very clearly how I interpret happiness.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Happiness is always in the present. But obviously not every present moment means happiness. When a present moment of happiness passes, it can be recalled in the memory. If a person has a large enough collection of happy moments to contemplate and enjoy, this will intensify, fortify, and stabilize his measure of happiness. He will resemble a connoisseur sitting in his home admiring his gallery of fine art. Leisurely going from one memory to another. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When experiencing a rare moment of happiness the person would be advised to step back slightly from its total immersion and fix the instant in his consciousness. But not so much that he diminishes the actual event. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Chasing after happiness in the future is a serious delusion. It's not out there, up there, down the road. Happiness is the sum total of present moments that have transcended the present and become a foretaste of eternity. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A happy moment appears as if by accident, out of the blue. Not by conscious design. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A guy hesitated at the door, and then walked in. He was a little older than me, but not by much. He introduced himself as a jazz singer and actor. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's my generation," he said, pointing at the Kerouac painting.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Funny you should say that. A young guy was just here and he had never heard of Kerouac."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Was he under forty?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, in his twenties."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How fucking stupid is that? I have to deal with this all the time. These young kids ask me what kind of music I sing? And I mention a few famous names, and they just look at me. 'Who's that?' Christ Almighty . . . we're going down the toilet as a culture."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, I think it was always this way. The ancient Romans were always complaining about how ignorant the young people were."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's true. Just imagine what a man like Churchill would think if he sat down and talked with me. Churchill was educated in the classics. He read Greek and Latin, and was familiar with all the illustrious names of the past. In his eyes I would represent the triumph of barbarism. My paintings would be even further proof of it. Not that he would need any.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 18, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Sun breaking through. It's been chilly and gray. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "This is the way New York always is. No wonder I didn't get anything done," Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, it reminds me of British Columbia in the summer."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How did you stand it?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It was a good period in my life in spite of the gloomy weather."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think my moods are tied to the changes in the air, but apparently there are exceptions. One of the happiest days of my life was when I noticed my state as I walked through a fine drizzle, on the way to open my shop. I remember thinking "I am happy." It lasted for about a minute. Maybe five. But no more than that. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> People are too greedy for happiness. They should be content with a brief memory of momentary well-being. That's the only way I know how to make it any greater than it was, and spread it out over the years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's like this. When I've had a particular woman in mind, I say to myself she could make me happy right now if she wanted to. But because she doesn't feel so inclined my happiness is put on hold. It's postponed and becomes a fixation. If the woman finally chooses to do exactly what I wanted, then it's so far removed from my original idea of happiness, and so much time has passed, and I'm no longer the same person filled with the same dreams, that it's very close to unhappiness. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The long, difficult, and costly journey to ecstasy is a sure way of killing it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If the woman, on the other hand, instantly agrees to my love, then the question of happiness doesn't have time to assemble itself. To cultivate itself. Something good happens, but it's not very memorable. Nor deep. Nor overwhelming. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> An ancient poet put it this way. "Say no, Giulietta, but don't keep saying no." He might have added, say yes, but don't keep saying yes. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 17, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Did you like your pinot grigio?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, it wasn't bad. I drank half," Jackie said on the phone last night.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She favors pinot grigio. I think it's mainly because of the name. It sounds fancy. A little exotic. Even though it's just a step above jug wine. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I thought of a title for an amusing essay. "Byronic or Ironic?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Byronic is of course derived from Lord Byron, a great romanic poet. He was a very charismatic man. He was passionately serious and dedicated, and died at 36, while fighting for Greece in a revolution. It wasn't even for his native country. He was serious, but also witty. Yet no one would claim that his ruling attitude was irony. If anything it was the exact opposite. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> People comment on my paintings. They say they are romantic. I suppose they could even be Byronic, especially the text pieces. Sincere, even a little raw in places, ardent, not really all that comical.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yet I've noticed that people can burst out laughing when they read one for the first time. I wonder why? Is their laughter is a sudden recognition of some truth they see? Laughter is generally regarded as a sign of mastery, of being superior to the situation. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We laugh because we are no longer enslaved by a particular situation. We laugh out of relief, and the memory of our former inexperience. We laugh because we are now happily free from one more captivating illusion. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Irony is different from Lord Byron's reality. A convinced rebel, one who will die for a cause he believes in, rises above irony, which is rooted in doubts. Irony sees many sides of the issue, and is inclined towards gentle mockery. A Byronic hero might be contemptuous, but only rarely ironic. He's too consecrated and hot-blooded for inane banter. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Byronic natures run the risk of taking themselves too seriously and losing their sense of humor. Ironic types tend to not take themselves seriously enough, and may laugh when a thoughtful silence is more appropriate. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 16, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Sitting at the new gallery. A fairly quiet Sunday afternoon. Dante sold a table earlier. She's selling more tables than I'm selling paintings.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Paintings at a new place require some time, to gain credibility. I've sold thousands in LA, but I was absent for awhile, and the memory of the masses is notoriously brief. I have to get their attention once again. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Several people have come in and said they own one of my pieces and have been looking for me. Well, I'm here. Come and get it. The stuff is better than ever, and still a bargain. Even though it's probably twice as much as it was five years ago. But so are hamburgers and tires. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We'll have a grand opening around the first of June. I think I'll pretty much have the walls filled by then. At first Dante wanted only a few pieces hung, but that idea didn't last. I like a full space, even if chi-chi galleries are always nearly empty. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Did you look at the Harrison? Is it finished?" Jackie asked.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't know what else you can do to it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Can you bring it to the gallery, so I can take it up to my gallery tomorrow?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Maybe she can try to hawk it to the restaurant next door. The Australian owner wanted a Beatles painting for his place.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I went to the store and bought two cheap bottles of wine. I'll give one to Jackie. She prefers drinking over eating, any time. I won't tell her how little they cost. It affects her taste too much. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She makes a face if she thinks something is priced at rock bottom. It seems naive, but maybe her taste buds are more delicate than mine. In fact, I know they are. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can't eat mild cheese. It doesn't taste like anything. Or it tastes like that dental gunk that's placed in your mouth to make an impression of your teeth. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Cheese, for me today, has to be the bluest blue, or at least a French camembert. My buds have shut down. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I talked to an attractive lawyer from Israel yesterday. She was bright and hip. That's another bonus of being out in the world again. You get to meet some appealing folks. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> God, I'm stone broke again. Well, this time I refuse to gnash my teeth and curse the gods. They no doubt have an interesting plan for me. Bring it on, Immortals. I think it's high time I had a raise. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We'll see. We'll wait and see. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 15, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We were talking about painting. We always talk about painting. This is one of the chief reasons we spend so much time together.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie was telling me about someone who wanted to commission another piece.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Why can't people walk into the studio and point to a painting, and say, there, I'll take that one!"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Some people can. These are the best people, as far we're concerned."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> From a living, working painter's perspective, the world is divided into at least three classes.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> First, the clients who like what they see, what's presently available, and without further ado they immediately plunk down cash, put the piece under their arm and leave. They are the salt of the earth. The most sophisticated, the most intelligent, the least troublesome, collectors. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The second group, a very distant second, are the ones who want the painter to paint something special for them. They are often the most insistent bunch. And without realizing it, quite insensitive. They have an odd idea about the nature of art. They imagine that painters are no different than carpenters, gardeners, plumbers, lawyers, and anyone else whose services are for hire. They do not understand how their requests can make an artist's blood run cold. The artist, when dealing with this class, must always disguise his real feelings. If he needs the money.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've dealt with artists, with painters and sculptors, and occasionally I've bought things from them. I would never dream of "commissioning" a piece from an artist I admire. It's very insulting, and he would throw me out of the studio on my ass. I'm happy to get what I can. And I let him know it. I only buy what I love, and what I love is always right in front of my eyes. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The third group, actually a huge mob, contains those humans who never have thought about buying a painting from a particular artist they happen to know, if only in passing. If only having walked by a gallery and glanced at his or her work through the window. It never occurs to them to spend their money on actual, genuine art. The idea seems crazy. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This group can be further subdivided. There are those who hate what they see, and instantly put it out of their mind. There is also a smaller category, the critics. Those who are inclined to judge whether or not a painting is good or bad. They very seldom spend money on art, however. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A peculiar, but not entirely rare species, are those people who enthusiastically praise paintings, but never consider owning one. They say things like "oh, we love your work, but we have no place for it!" Or they plead poverty, even though if they really wanted to they could afford a small purchase. It really isn't a big sacrifice to save up for an inexpensive painting. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, that about covers it.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 14, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie and her beagle walked into Cloud Noir yesterday afternoon. It was the first time I saw her at the new store.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I thought I'd come and see you. What're you doing?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Nothing much. Reading a novel online."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How can you do that? It kills my eyes."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Actually I no longer read novels. I still read authors, now and then. And I only read for style. Literature is literature because of style. Otherwise it's just writing. No different from newspapers or instructions on packages. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Did you get your down payment for the Beatles painting?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No! I called him yesterday, and the gallery owner called him today. We can't hound him anymore. He keeps saying he'll drop the check off."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I guess you'll have to leave him alone."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I hope he hurries up. I have minus $128 in my bank account."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm no better. Actually much worse. It'll take many years to climb out of that credit card hole."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm starving. What did you eat last night?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, my usual. A wedge of cheese, some bread, and a few glasses of wine. Also, some vegetable spread I picked up at Trader Joe's."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So bad for you. So fattening."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't care. I've decided life isn't worth living without bread, wine, and cheese."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You'd rather die."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "If I can't have my simple poet's meal? My repas frugal? I guess I would. Why, what did you have?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Nothing. A hot dog. The last of them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "A hot dog? No bun? Nothing on the side?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Just a single hot dog. I cooked it in the frying pan."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And for tonight?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't know. I'm out of money. Probably nothing."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I reached in my pocket. Reluctantly. I handed her a ten dollar bill. I was saving it for my own meal.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can't take this!"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, come on." I pressed it into her hand.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Thanks. I'll pay you back."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Sure you will."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We have a history of me tossing a few crumbs her way. Just enough to keep the fire going. We no longer go out for fancy dinners. Those days are over. But I still feel responsible for her. At least to make sure she eats. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One time when we didn't see each other for about four months she lost way too much weight. And had dark circles under her eyes. At five foot ten she'd shrunk down to 111 pounds. It was much too thin. I hired her again to make some paintings for me and started once more buying her dinner regularly. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can see why hunger strikes are so effective. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 13, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When I make something that seems new, at the end of the day I move the canvas near my bed, where I'm able to see it the moment I awake. In that quick glance I can often notice things with fresh eyes. I can clearly tell what's good and what's bad about the piece. Mostly, what's bad.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For the last few years I stopped this practice. I may have merely been repeating myself. I wasn't making enough new pieces. I was in a rut.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But last night I placed a painting close to the sink, behind the bed. I looked carefully at it when I awoke. It was better, but still not what I'd hoped for. Am I trying too hard? Maybe, maybe not. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The piece showed me what's wrong with it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Like when a person wakes up with a new lover. He notices things about her that were overlooked on the previous night, because of passion, or hope, or fear. He now stares at her in a cold, sober light. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But unlike a new lover, I can change the painting today, and try to make it more to my taste. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You might think this is a better situation, but not necessarily. The painting may end up disappointing me far more than any lover has done. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If a lover disenchants, who's to blame? But if a painting depresses the painter, the painter can only point the finger at himself. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Artists can be exceptionally hard on themselves. There're many reasons for this. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> An artist rips out his quivering soul and presents it to the world. The world may ignore his offering. Or ridicule it. Or despise it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That's not so bad if the artist is satisfied with his work. If he has enough confidence and faith in himself. But what if he agrees with the world's judgment? What if he is more horrified than anyone else? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This can be very distressing. Where is consolation to be found? Not in himself, nor in others. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> No wonder poor Van Gogh shot himself. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 12, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I hate answering my phone, or checking my mail. I let it go for a few days. Bill collectors. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I thought about resurrecting my sculpture. Buying a torch. Making small figurines in bronze. Then, decided against it.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The painting is better than ever. If the sculpting was doing so well, I'd still be making some pieces. A person doesn't have an infinite amount of time to scatter around. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I told Dante yesterday that even though I still like hitting junk stores, flea markets, and garage sales, I'd be better off going to Home Depot and buying some lumber and canvas for new paintings.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My days as a collector are over. But the painting is pouring out like hot streams of lava. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Two women just walked through the gallery admiring my text paintings. I no longer have it in me to really press for a sale. If they want one, they can dig into their purses and pull out a few bucks. They aren't that expensive given what they are. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> How many things do you own for the rest of your life that you bought for a few hundred dollars? Not clothes. Not furniture. Not jewelry. Very few, probably. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> People aren't even at the same level as magpies. They don't own anything worth keeping. The things they own only give a temporary pleasure and are soon cast aside. A good work of art keeps streaming with gratification. Not enough people understand that. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Some guy wants me to paint Abbey Road," Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The Beatles walking along?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. I told him that I'd like to make four separate paintings. Can we do that on the printer with transparencies and silkscreens?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't see why not."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I went to his house in the Valley. He was a big shot in the Industry. He's retired now."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Try to get a decent price for a change."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I will. I screwed myself on that last big painting. Didn't charge enough. I almost lost money."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Live and learn."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'll call you later and tell you how it turned out." </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 11, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A feeling of upheaval in the air. Just minor stuff. There are good days and bad days. And also indifferent days. Today is a mix of indifferent and bad. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I wrestled with a tool for a hour this morning. The pneumatic staple gun. It was on the blink, and the hand stapler wasn't cooperating either. I just stood there, at a loss. Then I somehow solved it, and pushed on. But it was enough to make the day not that good. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Either one has money, but no passion. Or passion, but no money. That's how my life goes. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When there's a nice bank balance for a period of time nothing seems that fascinating. But when all the cash runs out, I suddenly become excited about a project and feel thoroughly balked. Very peculiar. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's because of situations like the above that I'm very reluctant to claim that I am happy. There always is a spider in the oatmeal. A turd in the punchbowl. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Something not there that needs to be there. Or something there that shouldn't be there.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Either I'm not made for happiness, or neither is any one. People say they're happy, but it probably has something to do with a defective imagination. They've sealed off a real knowledge of their possibilities, and accepted their constricted situation. Anything that's not concretely painful will resemble happiness for most people. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I just can't accept happiness as being the more or less cessation of physical pain and mental torment. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> To me happiness is an all-around consciousness of perfection. A profoundly positive state. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When I compare different situations over my lifetime I have to say that a sense of personal achievement is perhaps the most convincing kind of happiness.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> To create an excellent painting doesn't have a rude flip-side. It's not followed by a disappointing letdown. It doesn't suddenly end and turn into something else. Even if I cut myself, or bang my shin, in the process. So real happiness can include pain. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Sexual satisfaction, or a drug high, or gaining a wad of money, or winning some kind of honor, or even taking pleasure in another, doesn't even come close. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Joy quickly fades, but awareness of one's inalienable inner power can't be easily topped. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 10, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I said that my days of writing in the morning are over. I get up, throw on some clothes, make coffee, and then start painting. At least this is the plan. But it's hard to tear myself away from the computer. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It seems more natural to read and write in the morning. My brain functions better. I often have my best thoughts right before I open my eyes. When night rolls around I'm at my worst. I just mumble absurdities. I dodder. I don't make sense.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can only hold it together for most of the day. But the painting is turning out well.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Holy Shit! That's a great piece," Dante said, as I put my newest work down on the floor of the gallery.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, thanks. Yeah, I think it came out."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You said you were going to work in a new style, and you're doing it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I've started. It'll take a few years for it to really kick in."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I always say everything any good takes about two years. A new style of art, a love affair, a major purchase, a move from one city to another, a different philosophy of life, the mastery of a tool . . . They all take time, and not just a few days. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm a confirmed gradualist at this stage. I don't however make plans that stretch too far into the future. That's as naive as imagining things happening in the blink of an eye. Two years is plenty. A nice, natural pace. Not too fast, not too slow.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've been boning up on a new color theory. It's fun to meditate on these things. According to this theory color is purely subjective. When your eyes are closed all is black. Eyes wide open, and all is white. When half the retina is open, it's either red or green. When a quarter of the retina is activated it's yellow, with violet being the other three-quarters. When orange is seen, it's one-third, and the after-image is two-thirds blue.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I had to study that for my entire time in art school," Jackie said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It doesn't seem to have sunk in."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Why? People love my colors."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I mean you never have mentioned a scientifically, or philosophically, based systematic use of color."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't like science. I use color instinctively."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. Then why go to art school?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You always put down my art school."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Not really, but I put down a lack of attentiveness concerning art."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 9, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Writing on a new pc, using the newest Windows, at the new gallery. It's awkward, and I've lost two fragmentary entries so far. But may as well keep plugging away.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It reminds me of those scenes in war films where a guy from one army grabs a weapon from another army, checks it out briefly, then immediately starts firing away.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But when it comes to so much new stuff I'm no action hero. It takes me a fairly long time to figure things out. A learning curve must be respected. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Every lotus has a stem. Nothing happens at once. It needs time to grow, to blossom. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But already we are selling out of Cloud Noir. Dante is moving her tables. Especially the ones made with iron and wood.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> They are quite heavy. Like my paintings. Literally.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "We sell by the pound," I told Dante and Anthony. For me heft and quality go together. Lightweight things betray an amateurish hand. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I want to make my paintings as solid as bronze sculptures. Designed to last for centuries. This is one of my most important goals. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Contemporary sculptors often strive to make sculpture as quickly and inexpensively as painters make paintings. And I think it would be good if painters try to make paintings as weighty and durable as works in marble. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We even had our first interview. An attractive woman came in and I babbled to her for an hour. In the future I think it would be best if Dante or Anthony handled all the interviews. Not that they are so frequent.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Interviews are a bit strange. I'm uneasy if anyone thinks I should be more revealing about myself than they are about themselves. So I asked the journalist about her life, and came away learning as much about her as she probably learned about me. It went well.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She's an American Indian who grew up in Alaska. Part Tlingit, part Winnebago. I was glad to have a painting of High Bear on hand. I could talk to native Americans forever. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I still recall that mystical feeling I had as a child when I played in Indian Springs Park, on the banks of the Mississippi. I think it must have been my earliest sense of cosmic otherness. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Why was it named Indian Springs? The Indians from Iowa were long gone. But they must have left a haunting trace of themselves. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 8, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I lost another entry. This website doesn't allow me to write, save, copy and patch it in from somewhere else. So it's always a roll of the dice whether or not a masterly paragraph or two actually becomes posted. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Luckily, even if it ended up deleted and gone forever, there 's always more where that came from.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I had written an essay combining two of my favorite areas: painting and philosophy. Maybe it was just as well that it was erased. I notice that I sometimes am inclined to sermonize. I don't like this style in others. I'm not sure where it comes from. Preachiness is disgusting. An utter turn off.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Not too long ago I was with this woman from LA. We had sex one night. She told her girl friend "it was like getting laid by a priest." Egads. Is that how I come across? Even in bed? Most of all, I hope not in bed. Of course that didn't stop her from wanting it again. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, I always say I am a priest. A High Priest of a New Religion. The religion of art. The Popes of art have been Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Vermeer, Picasso, etc. There's a present day Pope, but I'm not sure who he or she is. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think of myself as at least a bishop, or maybe even an archbishop, of Art. By now. Perhaps I aspire to the red hat: a cardinal of Art. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But then again, the religion of art isn't bogged down with ecclesiastical baggage. Actually, there isn't any appointed hierarchy. It's a matter of opinion. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'll try to add some more to this entry from the gallery pc. It's up and running, and makes it so easy to stay there until seven every night. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The place is looking good. It's very interesting to have Anthony as a partner. Dante and I are so informal, so breezy, and arbitrary in our attitude towards business. Anthony is not. He loves details, and precision when it comes to practical matters. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You can't really expect to thrive in business without a solid foundation of sound financial practices. This could be interesting. Maybe it's time for such a development.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 7, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm still mulling over the 100 million dollar Picasso painting. It was created by the Great Master in 1932. In a single day of action painting. Of his secret mistress of the time. Probably after sex. A bold, fun painting. But very unsellable.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> He passed it along to his dealer in 1938. It lay around in his studio for six years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Finally, the dealer managed to sell it for a so-so price in 1951. Nearly two decades after it was made. By that time Picasso had been famous for a half century. Yet the painting was still nothing special, nor, frankly, is it even today. To look at it, separate from the price, and the fact that it's a Picasso.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But it's gathering momentum. In a big way. And this is probably the lesson I take from it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Art is inspired by the past, made in the present, and to be appreciated in the future. That is the whole point. Of genuine, original art.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For an artist Time is your greatest friend, or your deadliest enemy. Time will trample on, and utterly destroy your pretentious paintings, poems, sculptures, novels, films, songs, photographs, and so forth, like so much worthless garbage, or it will tenderly care for your best efforts, saving them from the landfill, and gradually moving them from a dark, dusty corner and raise them to a treasured place of distinction.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But you'll be long gone before that happens. If it happens at all. Even the celebrated Picasso is long gone. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Only an utter fool would sacrifice the wonder of this life for the dreamed of glory of posterity. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It won't be any different in the future. The same kind of idiots will still be running the show at that time as they are today. The world will be just as depressing and mediocre as it is now. Don't kid yourself.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> An artist should erase those nagging thoughts of posthumous success from his mind as he thanklessly labors alone in his studio. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Just do your best and leave it to destiny. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 6, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can't talk. My mouth is all swollen. I went to the dentist," Jackie was mumbling on the phone. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, I'm glad you went."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It hurts. No one seems to understand. I had two cavities filled, and I have to get my wisdom teeth pulled."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. It's not so bad."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Why would you say that? It's horrible."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "People make too much of it. It's simply not as bad as you fear."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You're not a very sympathetic man, are you?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't know about that. I do what I can to bring a little sunshine into your life."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Don't make me laugh. It hurts. My face is all puffy."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Did you give Dr. Kim my regards?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, I gave him your regards."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What if I went to Whole Foods and bought you some stuff for dinner. Would that help?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm such a mess. I can't go out."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can drop it off at your door."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, you can come in. But I look terrible."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What do you want? Not too expensive."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Okay. Skim milk. Some yogurt. Plain, non-fat. Two boxes of mac and cheese. And a stick of butter."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That should do it. I'll be over at 7:30."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And some orange juice . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I had already done my shopping for the day. This was above and beyond the call. This was sure to gain me some points with The Man Upstairs. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But how many does it take? I wonder what my ledger looks like? Do my acts of charity outweigh my sins?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Is it enough to get me through the pearly gates? One of the benefits of living a fairly long life is having the opportunity to right the wrongs of the past. You become good in spite of yourself. Out of a lack of energy, or interest. I don't even feel like another walk on the wild side. Being good is less boring than being bad. At my age. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I bought Jackie some food and drink, and drove back to the studio. Her face didn't seem that swollen. I tossed in a cheap bottle of wine, just for fun. That really lifted her spirits. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even though this has nothing to do with the above anecdote, I spent the day thinking about it: the evil, the really depraved people, will be punished in the afterlife, but the stupid are punished in this life. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's an interesting idea. The wicked imagine they can get away with it, but they'll end up very shocked. Oh, yes. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Stupid people don't have to fear pain after death. They have their share in abundance right on this earth. If anything, they'll find the afterlife much easier going. They'll become smarter and make better choices. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 5, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This will be the last day I write my journal in the morning. Instead I'll start my painting as soon as I get up. I have until around two o'clock to work, then I drive to the new gallery.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I don't mind at all a change in routine. A little shake-up invigorates. It marks a limit to one phase, and a beginning of another, like a notch on a stick.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm uneasy when time just flows onward, like a dream state. It then resembles a heavy drug. A kind of suspended animation. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We now have a new computer installed at the gallery. It makes a big difference. To merely sit there waiting for customers is very dull. I have to be doing something. Originally I either made sandals, or jewelry, or bronze figurines. I was always creating. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But I can't paint at the gallery. All my silkscreen tools are at the studio. But I can work on text pieces, or do research on the internet. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I was reading about the 100 million dollar Picasso that sold at auction yesterday. Does this have anything to do with me? Very little. Picasso was a rich man for almost all of his life. But he made his greatest art when he wasn't rich. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This is my point. When an artist becomes rich he loses much of his gift. He becomes a monument. A piece of history. An artifact. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A gilt-edged copy of himself. A clownish parody of his authentic self. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px">And even though he seems to be alive, in one sense he no longer is. He breathes and walks and talks, but as a creative flame he's merely ashes of his former self. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Picasso would today be dumbfounded at the prices his paintings bring. Even his mediocre ones. But since he's dead the wealth now attaches to his surviving art. Which is as it should be.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Many artists are unwilling to live out their life with a modest amount of money. They'd rather exchange the possession of their gift for immediate wealth. Instead of patiently waiting for death to end their sojourn on this earth. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> In other words, their gift has become unendurable. An enormous thorn in their flesh. They reveal themselves to be no different than billions of other mortals. They have commonplace, mediocre wishes. They've abandoned their role as divine creators, and embraced the fate of average citizens attempting to make their way. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> No one has to agree with me. This is just how I see life. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 4, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante made a good sale yesterday. We've only been open three days. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I think this is the happiest I've ever been," she said. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We were in the store around three. There was a mild breeze coming through. It was sunny, almost like a summer day.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> After she left I thought about her remark. It added to my own feeling of well-being. How can a father expect to be happy if his child isn't? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Happiness isn't a selfish state. It's part of a personal organic wholeness that includes family, society, environment, and universal insight. When all of these circumstances are in perfect alignment a nearly automatic sense of peaceful contentment appears.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It caught me a little off guard. Happiness is more than a pleasant feeling. It has an austere intellectual aspect. At least it does for me. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It also reveals the reasons behind a previous unhappiness. Why it was so. Why it was inevitable. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I observed my grandson at play. His laughter, his enthusiasm, his willfulness. He's a little person discovering life, his own life. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Happiness must have something to do with continuity, with on-goingness. An awareness of the long past and even longer future. How one is a part, a mere point in a line, but an infinite point. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I then hung a few more paintings that I made earlier in the day. When I put my reading glasses on and peer at the works up close, touching them lightly with my fingertips, I perceive something new, something that was hidden as I worked.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> These latest canvases have a quality that was missing in former pieces. In particular I notice that the surface is as hard, and real, and textured, as a hand-made ceramic vase. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This fact greatly enhances my happiness. I'd been searching for this many years. I once owned a simple cream-colored, thickly glazed vase made by a man who created beautiful works at Jugtown pottery in North Carolina. I used to hold it for a long time marveling at the exquisite satisfaction it gave me. I wanted my paintings to be able to do the same thing for people. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Pottery is meant to be touched, but paintings are not. Yet, a painting can trigger tactile sensations even if we only look at it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Museum guards would usher a person out of the place if they saw him touching a masterpiece hanging on the wall. But in the privacy of your own home, you can caress your paintings as often as you like. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A good painting is a painting that touches you simultaneously as you touch it. A spark of living fire leaps across the gap. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 3, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My whole life is being re-ordered, re-adjusted, newly prioritized. I'm up much earlier. I have to get my painting done before two in the afternoon. I'm going to remain at Cloud Noir for at least four hours, and then immediately return to the studio. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This will change me. I'm ready to be changed. God, I sound like an infant with a loaded diaper. Freud was right about so many things. Early rituals reveal so much about our future. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A journey through life will encounter different circumstances. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You can't always expect to have the wind at your back, and sail forward, in a straight line, with ease. The wind shifts. You have to change course. Sometimes you deal with a head wind but still need to push toward your goal. Time to zig-zag. Take an oblique direction. For a while. But you nevertheless are closer to where you want to be.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You don't always have full control of your destiny. Chance plays a part. Try to pull something out of the fire, and remember that no situation lasts forever. Both the good and the bad are are subject to the vicissitudes of time and space. Even the wisest can get knocked sideways, now and then.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm on my way to the dentist," Jackie said on the phone a few seconds ago.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Okay."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You don't understand. My tooth hurts. I'm going to your dentist. Dr. Kim. Dante gave me his number."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Tell him I said hello."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's still the same price."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I realize that. But tell him I said hi. He likes to talk as he works."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I have a thing about dentists. I'm really afraid of them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Try to get over it. You can't ignore your teeth. They'll turn brown and rot and fall out."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Mine are not rotting. I just have a tooth ache."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, they don't fix themselves. Give my regards to Dr. Kim."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm really scared. I took a Valium."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's a good idea. Let me know how it turns out."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I hate sitting in the chair with my mouth open."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well . . . call me afterward." </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 2, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, that was an interesting day. The opening of our gallery. It has an odd blend of the old and the new, the strange and the familiar. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I was compelled to meet and greet new people, and I instantly noticed a difference in myself. Like a man returning to his hometown after many years. All is different, but haunted by sameness. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm not as animated as I once was. I listen more carefully, even though I'm more hard of hearing. And I seem to rest my eyes longer and more steadily on people as they speak. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> In a nutshell I guess I feel I don't have to hype anything. I have less of the used car salesman in me. The art speaks for itself. It's acquired its own voice. I don't apologize for, justify, or explain much. I'm weary of that role. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> People came by. Not many. Mostly neighbors and friends. It'll take time. We still don't have a sign up. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> However, I did sell a painting. To a new person who returned after talking with me. A woman who manages a hotel down the street. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante laughed. She said certain woman always like me. Maybe they like the style of art. Or the fact that I have a touch of the poet.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I really can't see what they'd see in me. I look like shit."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, dad, you've never looked better."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If that's true I really don't know what to say. My daughter obviously sees me in her own light. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Basically, a little more humility and a little less pride is probably a suitable attitude these days, and very appropriate to my age. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The art has gotten better, but the flesh has gone the way of the world. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The paintings become firmer, stronger, more durable. It's a different story for the painter. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">May 1, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante just sent me a pic of the new gallery. It looks like the best one I've ever opened. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I counted the places that I've owned and sold my art from. I think Cloud Noir could be considered the ninth of my businesses. The ninth stab at hawking my wares.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm not much of a businessman. I have many anecdotes to offer as proof of that. Art and business make a very odd couple. They can get along without each other, but often find themselves in a relationship. A difficult, sometimes dishonest, sometimes stormy, union.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The better the businessman, the worse the artist. And vice versa. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I believe in a creature known as the pure artist. He or she is an ideal being. Heroic, impossible, remote, perplexing, tragic, with a hint of madness. If you meet one or two over a lifetime it's a rare thing. Like seeing a flying saucer, a ghost wearing a top hat, or an ivory-billed woodpecker. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Being an artist is like being beautiful. That is, it's an endowment that doesn't last over a lifetime. Maybe only for a few years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Beauty has a predictable hour. It takes place during the bloom of youth. "Youth without beauty is no better than beauty without youth."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The artist in a person, on the other hand, can appear at various decades. And disappear, also, at different times for different individuals. Like beauty, creativity doesn't last forever. It comes and goes.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I like to theorize about these matters as if none of them has anything to do with me. The ability to make interesting generalizations is a small knack. Not everyone can do it. If you see yourself as a spectator at the carnival of life this helps. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If you like to imagine that you come from another universe it makes it easier to draw thoughtful conclusions about this world. Being a permanently rebellious outsider is a rare gift. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, time to face the public. I hope a few people come to our new store today.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Here is the address: 8044 W. Third St., Los Angeles, 90048.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 30, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Stiff as a new broom this morning. Hobbling around like I'm 110. I sealed the concrete floor and hung my paintings yesterday. The joint looks like a serious gallery. A contemporary gallery/furniture store. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante's tables are very impressive. Especially these new ones she bought from some young makers. They used found iron for legs, and a raw wood top. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think we could write an article complete with photos on how to set up a shop in a big city with very little money. I'll take some pictures in a few days. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I guess having set up shop a number of times helps. I still think about my first business. A sandal store in Victoria, British Columbia. "Golden Apples of the Sun." A line from Yeats. I had just quit teaching poetry, and that was the end of my working for others. It was 1969.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I opened a sandal shop without even knowing how to make a pair. But I quickly learned. And I also made metal things, using a oxy-acetylene torch. Again, I didn't even know how to turn it on when I bought it. But I taught myself in a little while. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I never ask anyone if I should do this or that. They always say no. Oh, that's a bad idea! But what if you listened to them? Nothing would ever happen," Anthony said. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Exactly. Like the kid this morning at Home Depot. He didn't want to sell me this concrete sealer. He said it wouldn't work because I had already painted the floor. Look at it now. What if I had let him talk me out of it?" The floor gleamed and was already dry and hard.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You just have to go for it, and ignore them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. Like some termite. It just starts building its nest. It has no idea what it'll look like. It doesn't ask another termite what to do. It just gets to work, rolling a little mud ball into place."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'll finish around ten more pieces and bring them over later today or tomorrow. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 29, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I painted the floor of the new shop. I worked very quickly, because I wanted to get back to the studio and make some pieces for Saturday, when we open.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante helped me paint. I've never seen her so eager to do something. She keeps her passion under wraps, and has always been a rather cool type. Her husband is also a little surprised.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "With me making money, it'll take a lot of pressure off him," she said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Absolutely. I would have been delighted if any of my women could have earned some real cash when I was with them. It never happened. I guess I don't have the knack of choosing very effective women. Of course I haven't been that effective either. Money issues can lead to a lot of fights."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I don't see how in today's world any marriage can survive without both adults bringing home the bacon. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante has arranged for her babysitter to watch Amedeo between 11 and 3 everyday. The days of a stay-at-home mom are numbered. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I rushed back and painted. I'm going to hang a few this afternoon. My partners at the new gallery move at a very brisk pace. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm feeling better by the moment. Because of my increased activity. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For the last couple of years I must have been in somewhat of a funk. I can now say it, because it's drawing to a close. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Part of being down is being unable to fully recognize it. Like being trapped in a heavy fog. Not seeing anything for what it is. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I like to think I handle my periods of de-energized gloom without going to pieces. I try to contain my dim outlook, and not infect others with it. But I don't know if everyone would agree with this. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When I experienced my so-called mid-life crisis about twenty years ago, and discussed it afterwards with my daughter she was surprised to hear about it. She didn't notice any change in me. I seemed about the same. Day in and day out.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You mean that was a mid-life crisis?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, yes. I don't know what else you'd call it. I was really pushed into a narrow corner, and deeply troubled."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I just didn't notice it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We spent every day together. I must conceal my depression very well. I work through things inside my own head, and eventually make significant adjustments. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Thank God, that's over.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> _______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 28, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I was only 24 when we opened the gallery on Edinburgh," Dante said. "Today I'm 36."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It felt very different, didn't it? We really didn't know what to expect. And it took forever to treat it like a real business."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> First of all we had a sturdy loft built, and Dante and Hannah moved in. They enjoyed living rent free, and it was fun for all of us. I trucked over paintings, and gradually people found us and began to buy. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Then Dante met Johannes, they fell in love, and moved into their own place. Hannah was less than happy with this turn of events, but she eventually found her own boy friend, and also moved out. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I saved up some money, bought a building in Boyle Heights, and stopped going over the Westside. Johannes took over the space and set up a small gym where he still trains people. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But something was lost in the process. I spent more time in my studio, and hanging with Jackie, who I had hired as an assistant, Dante and Yo moved to Manhattan for a few years, and Hannah went back to college.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> All of this was fine, but we still recalled the more interesting moments of meeting new people, making steady sales, and having a more colorful existence.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Owning a small, well-positioned retail outlet helps enormously in creating a bigger world in LA. People know where and when to find you, and they like to stop by, if only for a brief visit. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I think we're better when we make ourselves available to others. We're not as good when we have to enter their worlds. We do best when we throw open the doors and welcome anyone," I theorized.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "We can't work for others. It's not our nature. It's crazy to have to teach a dance class for $30. I'm better off selling a table and making $300."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I guess this is why people would rather sell a big new Mercedes than work at a used car lot. You make more for your time and efforts."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "My girl friend's father sells airplane engines, or something like that. He only has to sell one a year. That's probably the way to go."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 27, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I earlier wrote a lengthy entry, but it was accidentally deleted. This hasn't happened for a few months. I become a little superstitious when it's erased. As if I said something better left unsaid. So I just carried on, going about my day.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I drove to the new store, where Rudy and his crew were finishing up. It looks very good. And we really didn't spend much money on the place. Some of the things were exceptionally inexpensive. Like three large overhead fans with darkly stained blades. $39 a piece. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm going to paint the floor tomorrow. I plan also on remodeling the detached double garage in the back for a little studio, and occasional crash pad, when I don't feel like driving to the Eastside after work. It should be perfect for that purpose. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I had my biggest day so far," Dante said, referring to her sales. "And people are coming to the store on Saturday."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It should be open by then. There're so many changes I have to make. For example, I'll write my journal as I sit at the desk in the new store, later in the afternoon. Anthony is buying a new computer. I have an extra scanner and printer that I saved from the old gallery.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> What I feel is best about this latest plan is easy enough to state: the place is bigger and in a better location. My father had this advice: always get bigger. Keep heading to the big end of the slice of pie. Enlarge your world. It can be done. Visualize it, and then do it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Things can get in the way. Poor choices, faulty opinions, misperceptions, confusion. And before you know it, you've allowed yourself to be sharply diminished. You"ve backed away from your most authentic destiny. And settled for something secondary, mediocre. Very tragic. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Can't let that happen.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 26, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The store looks amazing," Dante said. "The black overhead fans are perfect and they go beautifully with the track lighting. We're getting there."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm glad to hear it. I was waiting for some news. It really wasn't all that expensive. Good taste can cost less than bad taste."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's right. We had so much fun with Jackie last night. The three of us just talked and laughed."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Man, that makes my life so much easier when everyone gets along."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I spent the day painting, finishing the Journey piece, and the Avril Lavigne. I want to have them picked up right away so I can get paid. I'm down to nothing. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We should open the new business by next weekend. I figure I'll have around thirty paintings to hang. It looks like the place can handle around forty, on a regular basis. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Dante says you'll have your shift from three to seven every day. Is that right?" Jackie asked.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yep."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You have a shift? It's the first I've heard about it. I guess we won't be seeing each other very much."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But you can walk over and visit me, and we can probably have some dinner after I close."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "At seven? What about your five o'clock meals?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I guess they're over for awhile."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I suppose these changes come as a surprise to Jackie, but not to me. I slowly set the wheels in motion. I've been carefully doing this for the last year or so. It all takes place nearly invisibly, inch by inch, little by little. It's my way. It's how I operate. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Someone once said that I am the most deliberate person they've ever known. Such an observation would have to come from a very insightful mind. I don't give the impression of being very focused and relentlessly driven. But that's probably how I am in reality. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I am the human embodiment of the changing seasons. Dramatic, refreshing, cyclic, inevitable. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I had this thought the other day. To be thankful in the face of thanklessness. It's a fairly complicated idea. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Generally we are miffed and soured when we feel we are underappreciated. But if we're conscious that this is often the destiny of those who labor in the service of an unrecognized future good it can fill the soul with an unusual poise and lay the groundwork for a life of stabilized cheerfulness. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> _______________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 25, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It was Jackie's birthday on Saturday. She's now 33. I guess I've witnessed her grow through some dangerous, formative years. But what decade isn't dangerous?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Still, I would say that people often find the transition from school days to the world at large a particularly trying time. One is no longer a child, but not yet an adult. Psychologically and artistically speaking. By now, however, Jackie is a full-blooded woman. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "When I was young I recall reading this passage by Dostoyevsky," I said to her yesterday afternoon at the studio. "He wrote that it should be the duty of every intelligent man to make at least one woman happy over his lifetime. But of course it's impossible for anyone to actually make someone else happy. That's too much to ask. But I would say that every intelligent man should at least strive to be continuously very helpful to at least one woman for a period of many years. And in fact I believe I have done just that for you."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And I believe I have done that for you," she promptly answered.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, whatever. But I have as selflessly as possible, tried to do everything to raise you in your own eyes, and enable you to believe that your happiness is possible."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And I have done the same for you . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. But I have done what I could to create the conditions for you to be worthy of happiness."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I have done that for you, also . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can see that my words aren't getting anywhere. You believe what you want to believe."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And you can do the same."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So much for birthday speeches. A waste of my breath? But I'm glad I said what I said. Maybe someday in the distant future, when my bones have long turned to dust, she can deliver the same speech to a different young person. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But even if that doesn't come to pass, so what? That's fine with me. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Apparently Dante, Hannah, and Jackie went out for a while last night, and had a really fun time. Great. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 24, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I own this top-notch espresso machine, which I use everyday. I notice that I need to frequently empty the bottom tray that catches the spilled water. If I let it gather even for two or three days it sends up a stink.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> In California the foreclosed houses have swimming pools that scum over and breed mosquitoes. It's a problem for the neighborhoods. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One of Blake's proverbs is "expect poison from the standing water." I've witnessed the truth of that observation. If I become inactive for too long, even for a short while, things start to go bad. The signs are there.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The contrary is also true. A mountain stream purifies itself. Just by rushing down the slopes, always in motion. Seeking its home in the distant ocean. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The best way to stay fresh and alive is to remain active and cooperate with the inevitably changing conditions of existence. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> When people linger in any one spot for too long, doing the same thing repeatedly, spinning round and round, death edges closer. They begin to rot in place, starting from the core and spreading throughout. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm already shaking off the insidious torpor of the last few years. I can't wait to step up the pace. This has all happened very quickly, but it was long overdue. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The life of a rolling stone is the best life. A clean smooth life brought about by absorbing the many shocks of an adventurous tumble through space and time. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A few months ago I had a choice to make. Either get out of LA, or get into it more fully. After lengthy meditation on the matter I've made my decision. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's time to begin another phase of my life as a big city visual artist. There's more to learn. More to unveil. More to give and receive. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 23, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The world shrinks by the hour. The destruction of distance is intensely ongoing. But this has an unintended affect. Distance lends charm. When travel and communication devour time and space to such an extent everything suddenly looks too familiar. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The public from early last century was fascinated by tales and pictures of the Far East. Painters could go to the South Seas, or the heart of Africa, and portray what they saw there and the world was fascinated. Today everything is contemptibly next door. Exoticism is dead. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The one thing left, before life on another planet is discovered, is the strangeness of the everyday personal. There are uncharted continents inside of each of us. Who can lay down the map of love? The paths of selfhood. And cross the waters of the super-conscious. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The shop is coming along. It occupies my thoughts, as it shapes up. Something very down to earth. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm pleased that my construction man is doing such a good job. Dante and Anthony are happy with the results. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I started on some new pieces. I guess I have at least twenty to hang by next weekend, when we plan on opening. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We've done this before, so I'm not anxious or overly concerned. It can reach a point where people can walk through the door even though the paint on the walls is barely dry, and there's still more to do. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm finishing a commission portrait, and after this, I want that manner to come to an end. In fact, I'm going to remove all the photos from the website. I'll only show what's on hand, and for immediate sale. No more "versions" of previous pieces. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That phase is over. Consummatum est. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This is the way of the boldest conquerers. They move forward, and don't look back. What's done is done, and even if it was poorly done, it nevertheless is forever done, and the best I could do at the time. So don't crucify me if it was inadequate. I'll do better in the future . . .</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 22, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Have to leave early today and drive across town to deliver paint to Rudy, who's already started on the store. He'll paint the outside front today, and begin on the floor. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm keeping in close touch with Dante and Anthony, as we consider our decisions. Dante loves to post ads on craigslist, where she receives immediate replies. Anthony is tethered to his blackberry. I prefer email. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm stiff from more physical activity. This is good. I'm sure I'll drop a few pounds over the next few years. I've been way too sedentary. I weigh nearly 200. Atrocious.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We're working out our schedules. Dante will run the store from 11 to 3 each day, and I'll be there from 3 to 7. It should work perfectly. I'm generally finished painting by three anyway. Especially if I start early.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I checked out supplies at Home Depot. Smooth highest grade plywood for the sign. Track lighting, also. Actually a gallery doesn't cost much to open.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Will then swing by the silk screeners to pick up the burned screens of Journey and Avril Lavigne. I want to finish them today, and have them picked up tomorrow. I think they'll both turn out well.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie sold an elaborate painting she composed of a destroyed bass guitar. It was fastenened to the heavy supported canvas with a lot of plaster and glue. It went for a good price to a music producer. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She's less freaked out, for now. It won't last.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, maybe I'll be able to write some more later on. This entry is pretty dull.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Later. I'm back after dropping off the paint for the store. It already looks better. Rudy and two guys are hard at it. "We got here at five this morning!" he said. He's a little nervous that too much is done too quickly, so he exaggerates his hours. I really don't care as long as he does what we ask. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The screens weren't finished. The guy is a bit of a jerk. I may have to check out other places. I used to burn my own, but it's unnecessary today. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> In LA if you have the time and patience to search, there's always someone who can do something faster and cheaper and better. No need to feel tied to anyone or anything. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 21, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Suddenly I have a schedule once again. No more idle musing on the nature of the cosmos. Time to put my shoulder to the plow.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But I still give myself over to the wonder of it all. For instance, I read about a new theory of how existence began. What if the present universe originally exploded out of a black hole? This would explain how everything is in everything, as if all the blasted fragments have a desire to reassemble into another previous form that existed prior to the so-called Big Bang.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Our universe is merely a local universe that is part of a much larger superuniverse, slowly evolving into a pre-established form. We are homesick for a previous dimension, prior to falling into the black hole.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Makes sense to me.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But these lofty speculations don't pay the bills, or keep the wolf from the door. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Had a meeting about the store, with Rudy my usual construction guy. His quote seemed a little high, though. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It feels different when other people are involved. It's not just between Rudy and myself, now. I have partners. And they looked askance at the figure. I think in the past I was a bit careless with my money. Maybe those days are over. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm impressed with my daughter's profound sanity. People with a lot of imagination often have it at the expense of their judgment. And those with keen judgment often lack vivid imaginations. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante's mother and father had intense imaginations but underdeveloped judgment. Our daughter has solid judgment. And that is a great relief. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She will be an excellent business partner. I'm more and more like a helium balloon, and my daughter hangs on to my string to keep me from floating away into the blue beyond. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Richly active imagination is essential for an artist, but in that case he or she needs someone to connect them to terra firma. So many of my women have been as imaginative as I am. This is like the blind leading the blind, or two children walking hand in hand through the jungle. Very risky. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie is a wild painter. I'm also a wild painter. A dangerous combination. We try to steady each other, but are only party successful. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Who's running the asylum? </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> ____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 20, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Talk about running on empty. How many times in my life have I done this? Too numerous for an exact tally. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But Monday turned out well. A very pretty and talented young woman stopped by and bought some pieces. She's purchased some in the past, but I've never met her before yesterday.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She comes from a famous American family. Lydia Hearst. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'll moving into my apartment tomorrow, and I want to have my art ready to hang."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What are you planning on doing in LA?" I asked.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, my modeling, and some acting."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Is anyone else from your family on the West Coast?" She grew up in New York, I think.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, just me."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I was signing the last of the pieces as we talked.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I have two artists now. Picasso's former lover and you."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, Francoise Gilot. I enjoyed her book about life with Picasso. A very strong willed genius."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, she ended up leaving him."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And he never forgave her. So did you go to her studio and buy something?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I did. She lives right around the corner from us."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And she still paints?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "She does. It's the only thing that keeps her together."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yeah, that's how it is with painters. As an artist she probably had her hands full trying to escape the dominating influence of her ex-lover, who casts a long shadow on all living painters. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I wonder if surviving the Great Man helps? Time must weaken the impact. But can you ever hope to regain your original self after such a transforming episode? </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 19, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante, Anthony, and I met at the new location on Sunday afternoon. It was bright and mild outside as we stood on the sidewalk examining the front of the building. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> People were strolling by. There was good traffic for a weekend. Two restaurants are on the same side of our street and doing business. It's only two blocks away from the justly celebrated Grove. We definitely should stay open on Sunday. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Opening a new business is an exciting prospect. A rational decision mixed with a bit of a crap shoot. I know what I want to happen. And not to happen. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But it isn't a sure thing, by any means. I've opened businesses that closed down too quickly. And others did very well and could probably still be in operation if I wanted. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's really the only way I've ever made any money. I have to sell my own apples. No one else can do it for me. Here's a few reasons why:</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The art must grow in order to keep attracting buyers. But other sellers get very anxious about my changes. If the pieces are doing well, they just want to reorder the same ones. This prevents me from my natural evolution. I stop myself from experimenting. That is to say, using the best technique for self-realizing development. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Also, I have to have my own foot on the gas pedal. I can keep moving forward by immediately adjusting the pace. If it goes too fast I can slow it down by raising the prices. Too slow, and I instantly drop the prices. But when this process is taken out of my hands I'm easily balked. And everything grinds to a halt. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's important to meet potential collectors face to face. I can then size up the situation in a flash. I can tailor everything to the individual. I have that right. People tend to like having a sense of the artist behind the art. It fleshes out the circumstances. Making it more meaningful.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Your art is accessible. And well-priced. I live downtown and check out the Art Walk. It's for people who want to spend two, three, or four hundred dollars at the most. But I see paintings by twenty-somethings, complete nobodies, for $6000 . . . $8000. It's ridiculous," Anthony said, as we examined the long, narrow interior of the new space. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I know what he means. It's a tough racket, selling paintings. You have to have your feet on the ground. You can't bullshit yourself. Not if you want to paint as a full-time job. Painting and only painting for a living. It's hellishly difficult. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We have to begin fixing up the place, and get the door open for the public. It's in pretty good shape already. I called my old amigo, Rudolpho. He was happy to hear from me. He and his crew from East LA will stop by later on today, and we can tell them what we want done. They handle everything: plumbing, electricity, carpentering, plastering, brickwork, welding, etc.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It should go fast. Stay tuned.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 18, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The main event of yesterday was Amedeo's second birthday party. I picked up Jackie at around five, even though she only lives a few blocks from Dante's place.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm wearing heels, so I don't want to walk there."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We parked behind the new store, in one of the three alloted places. The store is also very close by. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That's the thing about LA. You have to turn this sprawling beast into a small neighborhood. Otherwise you're lost . Our eye of the storm for the last twelve years has been the Fairfax district. We've established a beachhead there, and dug in for good.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I couldn't decide on a present for my grandson. He's only two, and he wasn't sure what the fuss was all about. A few other little kids were running around. I found an old silkscreen that I've only used once or twice. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's a picture of myself at around three or four, holding a rubber ball in my hands. Like the world. Like a future conquerer of planet earth. I remember when it was snapped, and even the color and feel of the rubber ball. Underneath the image I wrote "portrait of the artist as a baby." Maybe I'll burn another larger version some day. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The crowd at the party were the usual suspects. I guess that's how a scene eventually is formed. In the beginning it's a loose assembly of strangers, but over the years it firms up and people begin to say to themselves, well, I suppose this is my world. May as well accept it. And they relax and feel more at ease.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie and I went home early. She called me at the studio.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm bored and have nothing to do. I didn't have anything to drink. And I don't have any money to go out and buy a bottle of wine."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We talked for a while until we were interrupted by another phone call.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I have to call you back. It's Dante. I wonder what she wants."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie said Dante had some champagne and sangria left from the party and would Jackie like to walk over and have it?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Do I have to drink it all right there?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> No, she could take it home. She would even leave it out on the front porch if Jackie wanted to just grab it and leave.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Like for a stray cat? No, I'll come inside."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She agreed and so everyone ended up happy. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 17, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Painted yesterday. A new sensation as I worked. The act of painting became physically demanding. Even though I was only dealing with a small canvas. Very unusual.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This new style actually requires muscular effort. A real workout. This is something that's been missing. For a long time. Actually, forever. From the earliest moment I picked up a paint brush. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It calls to mind a story about the two greatest giants of art: Michelangelo and Leonardo. I'm a little tired of art history anecdotes by now. I've heard too many. Too often. But this one has kicked around in my mind for many years, without a resolution.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Leonardo claimed that painting was superior to sculpture because it could portray a whole world in colors, and a painter could work pleasantly in attractive surroundings. Whereas sculpture could only make a limited form, and the sculptor himself was basically a manual laborer covered with marble dust.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Michelangelo, fundamentally a sculptor, became enraged at his rival's assertion. He took it as a personal insult. He answered by saying the sculptor created three-dimensional realities, but painting only fashioned two-dimensional illusions, the best being closest to actual sculptures. He said, in effect, that painters are merely frivolous gentlemen, not godlike powerful creators. Adopting a macho point of view.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Sculpture has traditionally required more active energy than painting, at least until the abstract expressionists came along. Nor was the Sistine Chapel painted by a delicate weakling. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackson Pollock worked as hard as any carver of marble, or molder of clay. And that's what had been lacking in painting. Genuine painting today means the complete person becomes involved in its process: body, mind, and spirit. All happening at once. Not just fingertips while sitting on your ass. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So, I feel I am finally on the right path. Better late than never.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante is throwing Amedeo's birthday party this afternoon. I'll attend, where I hope to speak with Anthony, Hannah, and Dante about the new store. I have some more possible names to consider.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie said she bought my grandson a fancy tee shirt. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 16, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Visual artists aren't just visual artists. They must be so much more than that. If you're not a born genius then you would do well to gather as much comprehension about existence as possible. Examine everything.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A young person studies the world, but an older person is in a position to make some conclusions about it all. He can withdraw into himself, even as he mingles with others. My solitude is far richer than the most active social life. And the paintings that will come from it are plentiful. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's clearly time for my art to do the talking. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Tomorrow is Amedeo's second birthday. Dante is having a party. She's also being flooded with requests for her designed tables. It's great that the new store will be able to exhibit something besides my paintings on the walls. Another product is very necessary to its success. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Picture galleries are kind of impractical, with their high rent and empty floor space. A big waste, really. Boring. I mean how many homes contain a "gallery"? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Sunday afternoon we'll meet at the new space and formulate plans for the opening. Dante is shooting for the first of May. I'll immediately start exorcising the previous demons. Ripping it apart, and stacking the junk out in back. I noticed a dumpster next to the garage. We'll have to get it activated. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie is a little quiet about this new venture. "Good for you." I don't know how she'll fit into the picture. It's only two blocks away from her apartment. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> One of the problems of sharing a studio is that the paintings done there take on a communal look. She feeds off me, and I feed off her. Our discoveries become interwoven. This is a little surprising, and not always viewed favorably. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The most famous modern example of painters sharing a studio is Picasso and Braque, when they invented cubism. They used to sign each other's work. It was a very fruitful period, but it didn't last longer than necessary. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Before them, Van Gogh and Gauguin tried it out, and we all know how badly that ended. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It can be like a marriage, and just as messy. It takes a lot of self-control. A lot of sensitivity and circumspection. Like two porcupines in a telephone booth. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Today I have to work on paintings of the group Journey and the singer Avril Lavigne. For their manager. The guys in present day Journey look like they know their business. A rough looking bunch. And Avril seems very impish. She's wearing a hoodie with textile devil horns. Or animal horns. She's quite fetching. Nevertheless. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 15, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Back to my old ways. I don't change much. Just bend a little under pressure. And then spring back to form. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm now reading Schopenhauer again. He was one of my early influences. I recall quoting him during college days, while my friends scratched their heads in wonder. But then I left him behind for other writers. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Schopenhauer is a great so-called pessimist. The essence of his thought is clear enough: pain is actual and lasting, pleasure is a fleeting illusion.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Who wants to hear that when you're young and eager for adventures? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But today, reexamining the German thinker, it seems he got it right. Today Schopenhauer appears to be a hard-headed realist. He even can come across as an optimist. All because I'm older and have used myself as a testing ground for whatever life has to offer. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Learning the hard way is the most certain way. Life is different at different stages. The immortal creators will be giants or pygmies depending on a person's age and circumstances. Today's hero, will be tomorrow's dupe. And vice versa.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, things are looking up. I went across town and looked at our new location. It's better than the original Patrick McCarthy Gallery, which is currently the Johannes Brugger private gym. Yo's conducts his training sessions there, and so the space has stayed in the family.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But around the corner, right down increasingly fashionable Third St., between Fairfax and LaCienega, is our latest venture: Cloud Noir. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We brain-stormed the name. Cloud Noir was available as a phrase, and Anthony immediately secured cloudnoir.com. I'm not concerned with a literal meaning of cloud noir as much as I am with its look and sound. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The small empty shop is perfect. The rent is very reasonable for the location. Many businesses have gone belly up during the recession, and places are vacant, but that won't last. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We don't have to do much to get it ready and open for business. Just cart away the trash, rip out the junky interior, give it a coat of new paint, add some ceiling fans, tear down a meaningless wall, and hang a shingle outside the door. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And, as a bonus, it has three parking spaces available in the good-sized back lot, as well as a two-car garage that can be used as a studio. What a deal! </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante has been bombarded with calls for her furniture, and I'm sure my new painting style will do fine. The timing couldn't be better. Anthony even managed to get several months free while we prepare for the grand opening. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yeah, I'm stoked. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 14, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We had a meeting yesterday at the studio. Dante, Anthony, and myself. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante was clever enough to bring along this little basketball set for her son. We put it together for him and he lofted a small ball through the lowered net. Over and over for two hours, while we discussed the new store.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Most of the time was spent on a name. We agreed on the location, which Anthony is finalizing today. And the three-way split which is no problem. None of us are greedy, or petty. I personally just want to sell my paintings. As many as possible. Good ones. Only good ones. Very good, actually. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante wants to design and sell her furniture, and Anthony sees it more like an investment at this point, although another outlet for some of his products. He has a very thriving business in West Hollywood called "Candelirium." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Coming up with a name is harder than ever, because of the internet. If we insist on an original name that can be difficult, because once you type it in on google you'll be stunned and disappointed at how many other people have thought of it already. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So what if some other technology company in England has the same name?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No. We can do better. We need something, a phrase, two words that no one else has ever put together. No one in the entire universe."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Three heads really are better than one. If one person loudly disagrees with anything, then that proposal immediately goes into the garbage can. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And if three people are in total harmony then it's a green light. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I had to tell my realtor that I'm taking the studio off the market. Two possible offers are still out there, but after that, no matter what happens, the studio will remain in my hands. Unless one of these two offers work out. Either way, it'll be fine with me.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I need my own outlet in LA, even if I move out of the studio. One great outlet. Nothing more. That can last as long as I'm around. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I feel good about the prospect of getting out in life again, in the bigger world, and even meeting a few new folks. I'm ready. I'm charged up. I want to do this. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The best thing about a good decision is the immediate proof of its rightness, and the instant release of consequent benefits. The unmistakable signs manifest themselves. Pow!</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The fog lifts, and the sun breaks through. Everything feels lighter, kinder, more charming. My spine straightens out. I notice the sky, the tree tops. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Life is beautiful. For now. For awhile.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 13, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So many things are good and desirable when you isolate them, and strip them of before and after. When you show them in the happy center of the action. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I see it all the time in commercials and commercial art. The high points. The highlights. The moment of pseudo-ecstasy. The agreed upon, conventional nirvana. The kiss, the shared laughter, the warm embrace, the triumphant handshake, the ceremonial signing, the toast, the drive along the ocean, the bite into the french fry, the burger sizzling on the grill, the glance of recognition across a crowded room, the splash into a swimming pool, the sunlight on a beautiful face . . .</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Painters need to be careful about using highlights. Like writers using exclamation points. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I recall a story about Cezanne painting and another painter came along and said here, my good man, is how you do it, and daubed some white on the tip of the nose, and another line of white down the back of a wooden chair. Cezanne then took the brush away and turned around and farted. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And if you look at Cezanne's work you won't find a single highlight on any of his pieces. Not on a sitter's nose, not on a vase or apple, or a leaf, nothing. And this is part of what makes his art so miraculous, so congenial to our taste. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It says, look, all your assumptions about life, and what makes it worth living, are superficial, secondhand, and unbearably trite. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> How peculiar. Just as I was writing the above paragraph, there was a knock at my front door, and it was a guy who phoned a few minutes earlier about some paintings he had, and was I interested? I went out to the curb and he opened his car trunk and a reproduction of a Cezanne still life was on top of a pile of framed posters. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> He was an old man, who cleaned out an apartment in Santa Monica and these were left in box, and he saved them from the garbage. This happens now and then, and people want to know if they have any value. I found one work on canvas among the various reproductions and he left it with me. I told him I'd do some research on the internet and see if I could find the painter. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My world is filled with unusual coincidences, parallels, intersections, and synchronicities. Maybe everyone's life is, but I seem more conscious of it than ever. Drama is everywhere, at every second. But you have to be sharply aware of it. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 12, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I like using the word reclaimed. The carpenters make my tables with reclaimed, raw wood. It's the style I'm after," Dante said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. Certain words are in. You see them applied to all sorts of art. Reclaimed, salvaged, reimagined, repurposed, readapted . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Salvaged is good."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's a whole way of doing something. To take what already is in existence, but has been shoved to the margins, rehabilitate it and draw it once again towards the valued center of life. I like to do that with imagery. Find the poetry buried in the trash heap of prose."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I found some stores that are vacant and in a good area. I called one woman and she's ready to negotiate for a lower rent."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My daughter is the best choice I could ever make for a business partner. And also our friend Anthony. Never go into business with someone you've known for less than ten years. That's just asking for trouble. We've known Anthony for fifteen years.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I have several carpenters working with me. One is easier to deal with. He does what we agree on, but the other is stubborn and fights me on things. Then makes something I didn't ask for."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "At the root of stubbornness often you can find one thing. Money. People are either cheap or broke. But they don't like to show it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, that's the case with this one carpenter. He skimped on the wood, and I couldn't understand why. He refused to give me what I ordered. Probably because he ran out of money. So he just came across as stubborn."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, the project starts to take on its own momentum. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have to get moving . . .</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_____________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 11, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Why do I insist on hitting rock bottom before I make a real change? Is that the way it must be? Or the way it must be for me? Others can overlap things, make smooth harmonious adjustments. It seems that way. But why can't I do the same?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It might have something to do with my need to really exhaust all possibilities, and see it from as many sides as possible. If all is going even slightly well, I can keep doing what I'm doing, and muddle along.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I need to crash, to go down in flames. Then and only then I know what to do next. As long as I survive the plunge. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Anthony is ready to go. We were going to open a store together in New York, remember? Then the landlord rented it to someone else, and we all came back to LA. So we've already talked it out. We can come to your studio this week for a meeting," Dante said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm willing to run the place at least three days a week. Maybe you could handle it the rest of the time. Employees can be a drag. They expect to be paid. And they're not able to sell like we can sell. No one can sell my paintings better than I can. Because I can even give them away for pennies if I feel like it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It'll have my tables on the floor, and all your paintings on the walls. It'll be fun. Even the last gallery was fun."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And we actually made money. I've been away from the public for the last four or five years. I'm ready to interact with them again. I don't mind at all." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Let's find a place with low overhead."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "And small. It's easy enough to open our own gallery. We don't have to buy stock."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I think the timing may be right. People are beginning to buy my tables. I'm getting a lot of calls. But they all want to design their own. I can understand it. I would want to, if I could. They can design the tables, but not the paintings."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No! Never. We are done with that. It's what nearly killed me. What you see is what's available. Period. I've earned the right to do that. And this is the way I steadily improve. Commission stuff keeps me going in a circle."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Start thinking of a name."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "All right. A name . . . "</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 10, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A fitful sleep last night. A lot of things in my brain. Some new plans percolating. Bubbling. Swirling. Oh, man.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'll tell you about something funny," Dante said on the phone yesterday evening.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Okay."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I took Amedeo to the YMCA. I now go right upstairs to the gym. Where he immediately starts playing basketball. Apparently they were taping something there. With Sarah Silverman. And her whole crew. And they see Amedeo with the basketball and everyone crowded around him. They couldn't believe it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I knew there's something unusual about that kid and his obsession with the game."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It was really strange. Sarah walked right up to him and made everyone watch. They went crazy when he dribbled the ball. I was very low key about it, but everyone was cheering. 'How old is he?' she asked. Almost two, I said. Finally Ami got upset and started yelling and ran away."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He'll be on television someday demonstrating his skills. Like a young Tiger Woods."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So what else? Did you paint today? You said you were excited about it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, I did. And I'm very pleased with the results. So pleased in fact that I think we ought to open up a new gallery. You can provide the furniture and I'll cover the walls with paintings."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Sounds good. Let's do it, baby! Anthony would also like to be in on it. He's always wanted to go into business with us. He said last year was his best year."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Give him a call and tell him we're up for it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The idea occured to me almost spontaneously but it's been brewing for a very long time. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So I guess I'll be staying in LA after all . . .</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Anthony and Dante are already scoping out locations.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I sent Jackie a photo of my latest work, and she wrote me this morning:</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Best piece you've done since I've known you. Very stunning and moving. Now your art looks like art. Good for you."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> April 9, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm tired. There's nothing on tv. I've already walked my dog. I don't want to go on the computer. I can't go out, and can't stay in. I'm restless," said Jackie.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It was around ten last night. We were talking on the phone.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What about reading a magazine?" </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I have one, but I've had it for three days."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Too long for a magazine."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I agree. What're you doing?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, I went to this website and found something to read. Even though I have over a thousand books in the studio I didn't want to pick up any of them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So you're reading a book online? I can't think of anything worse than that. Staring at that screen. Doesn't it hurt your eyes? And my back would kill me. What an awful idea."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, it takes some getting used to. It's called the Project Gutenberg, and they have over 30,000 books to read. And always adding more. You can even download them and print them out. And it's completely free."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What, print them out on sheets of paper? What's so great about that?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I suppose it's not for everyone. Most of the works are classic literature, which is perfect for me. Not you. But I must say that I've always read lying down. This way I can only read a few chapters, and then I have to take a break. I found an obscure novel by one of my favorite authors. A real treat. Knut Hamsun. A Norwegian writer."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How did the painting go?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I made a pretty large canvas and covered it with plaster. I'm still very excited about starting on it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can hear it in your voice."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I also discovered an answer to my current problems. It's too soon to talk about it. But just knowing it is very satisfying."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's always darkest before dawn, but already streaks of light are appearing in the sky. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 8, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Take a picture of me standing next to the piece. The last ones you took are terrible. Try to concentrate." Jackie held up her Beatles painting and handed me the camera. I went outside while she stood at the back door, on the loading dock.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It might be better if we had a professional model fill in for you," I said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Just snap it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We put the piece in her pickup and strapped it down. She was delivering it to the client's home in the Valley. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Before you go, take a look at this and tell me what you think." I walked over to my monitor, and opened a window in Photoshop.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What's with the face? I like it better without it. Who is it?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No one. I just drew it in. The background needs something more."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Words would be enough."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The sketch has given me new life. I feel very confident about it. This morning I am eager to begin on a new style. I know it has been a long time in the womb, and the birth pangs have been very painful, but if all goes well it will have been very worth it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> At around midnight I had a final insight. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. It has to do with being able to work today, immediately. I was putting it off because I felt I needed to make a new silkscreen, but in a flash I realized that I didn't. That I had everything on hand. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This is a very good sign. To understand that nothing is needed but your imagination and skill. The material is right in front of you. Just use it rightly. Use it creatively. Use it in a different, innovative way. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have a choice. Either fret and stew and feel anxiety about money problems and the uncertain future, or happily and energetically dive into this exciting new art project. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yes or no. Yes and no. Yes to thrilling productivity, no to demoralized stagnation. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Fear is rooted in the idea of loss. Loss of money. Loss of love. Loss of health. Loss of life. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Loss of anything attached to your personality. And if it's attached, it will break loose, and eventually float away. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> What can be lost, will be lost. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But full comprehension of your innermost richness to make it happen --- no matter what --- destroys all fear. Nothing can tear this essential goodness out of your system. It is forever there, always alive and fresh, ready to appear, waiting to spring into action. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's a beautiful morning in LA. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 7, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I edited a photo Dante took of her table. She puts them on craigslist. I'm very sensitive to the keystone effect of photos, especially of my paintings. I tweak them in Photoshop using the skew feature. Her table otherwise looks out of plumb.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It must be the German in me that goes crazy when right angles are overlooked. I'm as fanatic about right angles and perpendicularity as I am about correct usage of language. I'm not sure this leads to peace of mind. It might be better to obsess about more important things. But what? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't know if I like those big meals where everyone is gathered around a large table," Dante said. Her designs can fit about six comfortably. That's plenty. That's perfect.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I hate that idea. In the movies or on tv they always try to make it look like such a happy affair. Everyone smiling, and digging in. As if the viewer wishes he was there. Trying to fabricate an imaginary ideal. But to me it's very uncomfortable."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Actually, we grew up eating dinner around a large table. I come from a family of seven children. It was a normal thing to do. But after leaving home it became exceptionally rare. I doubt if I could ever recapture the spirit, nor do I wish to try. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What do you think of this color?" Jackie asked. She was finishing her very large Beatles painting that she had worked furiously on. She pointed to a green on Ringo's collar.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's too light."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Darken it?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I would. The Sixties were not about subtlety. They weren't interested in soft designer shades. Our responses to colors are a complex business. They go back to our early days in the jungle. Bright greens can mean fresh food. A sallow green isn't as tasty. This is why I like using burgundy and golden yellow. They remind me of good wine." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Or diarrhea."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, you have to be careful. There can't be any sloppy ambiguity."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Painting is a tricky business. No one has ever been able to get everything perfect on a single canvas. Not even the Great Masters. That's why it continues. The quest is endless.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">___________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 6, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Dante sent me pictures of the latest dining table she's designed. It's very attractive and well-priced. She has a new carpenter to build it. Using reclaimed, weathered wood.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He's great. He loves making them, and is willing to work hard. But I sometimes wonder about these carpenters. He said, it's my new beginning! What could that mean? Did he just get out of prison?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> She asked about decorative touches. I told her about different metals, and how they should always be solid. Bronze, copper and iron would be best for the style. I also suggested a series of well-placed contrasting dowels would look nice.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I like this," she said, pointing to a small rectangular brass name plate on an old kitchen work table I own. "But I have to be clear about what I want. I think I'll say this to him. Nothing shiny. Just remove that word from your world."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yesterday she went to a French store and bought a small blue and white enameled sign that she attached to a table. It looks very original. It says in French, do not disturb. Kind of amusing. A collage effect on furniture. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I like adding my two cents worth to my daughter's latest project. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I printed out a family portrait yesterday, and will stretch it today. Someone coming to the studio to see about an Indian painting. I'd like to make a new series of Indians. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The older I get, the wilder I get." The words of Zorba the Greek. I've begun to question them. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> How real are they? I mean what if older people drove faster, walked faster, talked faster, drank harder, danced more deliriously, played sports more aggressively, and in general were more vivacious and animated than youth? Would the world be any better off? Seriously.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> In the novel Zorba is "about sixty." In the movie where Zorba is played by Anthony Quinn, who was pretty wild himself, the actor was actually in his late fifties. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can see that increasingly wild behavior is an interesting idea up until around the age of seventy. After that, well, if Zorba Man even reaches seventy, I think it may be time for a new adjustment. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Physical intensity yields to a more thoughtful intensity. The fiery passion will still be there, but not as obvious. More profoundly concealed, but burning hotter than ever. You'll be able to see the effects of it. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 5, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The weather seems to be in a foul mood. First there was an earthquake. I've gotten to know earthquakes pretty well. Each one is different. Scientists quickly appear on every local television channel and explain why. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Yesterday's was a rolling, slightly drawn out affair, like a kiddie ride at the carnival. Everything swayed from side to side. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It was in the afternoon and I watched my steel gate swing back and forth, like something out of a ghost movie. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I moved away from the iron beams in my roof, and sauntered outside and stood on the back porch. My neighbors were also outside, apart from buildings.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I talked on the phone to Jackie about an hour later and didn't even mention the quake. It didn't seem that important. I'm still unsure whether or not she felt it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Then late last night I heard an odd noise at the far corner of my studio. A plopping sound. I got up and took a gander. It was my roof leaking. I put an empty bucket under the water and returned to bed. I'll have to fix it sometime this summer. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> A plopping, gurgling sound depends heavily on context. If it was due to a small, attractive fountain set up inside my studio it would be soothing music to my ears and allow me to drift off into a pleasant night of sleep. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But if it's because of a hole in the roof, that is another matter. I then lay there feeling guilty, annoyed with myself, my whole life, lacerating myself with thoughts of all my mistakes, my laziness, my poor judgment, and so on. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's all context. Everything has a background. As a painter I ought to know that better than anyone. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> With a single stroke of the loaded brush a foreground and a background are instantly created. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> There's no such thing as a single color in primary experience. Every color is bordered by another color. And conditioned by that color. Even in your imagination.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So, no experience takes place in a vacuum. A vacuum doesn't exist in a vacuum. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The old riddle: how could there be an ultimate acid that would attack and eat through anything? What could it hold it?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's still raining. I am more inclined to work today. I'm still tinkering with a potentially new style.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You know what makes a good painting?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Tell me, oh, wise one," said Jackie, as she worked. "Then no more interruptions."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "A painting that teaches me something. This is a good painting as far as the painter goes. Because I learned from it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's probably true."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_______________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 4, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Just returned from the park after playing with my grandson, and talking with his mother. Dante's business seems to be gathering momentum. I like the way she's going about it. Slowly, on a shoestring.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I realize that businesses develop in many different ways, but for me the most familiar is starting from scratch with a few good ideas, creating a product, testing the waters, and beginning to sell. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "People can't open a store these days with a hundred dollars and hope to become successful. It's not the Sixties, Patrick." This from Jackie. She hates hearing my stories from those times, when things were easier and cheaper, and everything anyone tried immediately took off. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I don't agree. People still make something from nothing. It all begins with a yes or a no. Money is secondary. A fruitful seed is the most important thing. And love for the task at hand. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What're you doing for Easter?" Jackie asked.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Nothing any different."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "My parents asked me that. They expect me to do something very Catholic. My father is very intense about it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You were raised pretty strictly."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Only when it came to religion. Everything else they were quite relaxed about. I find it strange that you are 34 years older than me . . ."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "36."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Okay, 36. But we had the same experiences growing up. With the nuns and priests. Going to Mass early in the morning when it was dark and freezing outside. The physical punishment. All the horror stories the nuns would tell us. How is it that nothing has changed over all this time?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I know. It does seem weird. I had no idea it was still happening. I'm shocked to hear that it still exists."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How about me? I'm even more shocked. I feel like I grew up in a very obsolete world. Something from the deep past."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right. And when I talk to you I feel like I discovered someone from a small isolated village in the Ozark mountains."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But we were only a hour from New York City."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Very odd. Like a lost tribe in the heart of New Jersey. Man, the nuns tried to drill it into our heads that Easter was even more important than Christmas, but it was a hard sell. Where were all the presents?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, we received presents. My mother worked very hard on Easter baskets, and chocolate bunnies. And candy eggs. But do you really think Jesus would care about all this stuff. Putting on a big hat, going to church, and having an Easter egg hunt?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Don't get me started on Jesus. He would break down and weep if he saw all the goofy crap done in his name."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 3, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Jackie has been anguishing for a week over her very large Beatles painting. The screens were taking too long to burn. There was a problem with one of them, the transparencies were a little off, etc. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "They're all okay except the George," she said, handing me the silkscreens at the back door.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I held it up to the light and examined it. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, we'll see about that. It should print beautifully." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Don't jinx it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Actually they all printed. They look sensational. The best Beatles faces ever, taken from her collection of books.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Meanwhile I tried out a new experiment. Instead of burning a screen (exposing a photograph to high intensity light) I just used duct tape on the blank silk and made a simple design. It could save us time and money, and allow the work to become more personal. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So what do you think?" I asked Jackie, after an initial attempt on a canvas.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I like it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Coming from you that's high praise indeed."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I tell the truth. Do you want me to bullshit you? Like everyone else does. 'Oh, Patrick, that's so amazing!' I can do that if you want."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, I don't think you could. Even bullshit takes a little practice. And where are these people who enthuse over everything I do? I haven't met them."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I worked some more on my piece. Jackie wrestled with hers. We'd stop and comment on the two works in progress. Each was very important to us.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "How do you like it now?" I asked, after several hours had passed.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I liked the first stage better. Now it looks like one of the paintings my parents own from the 1970's."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I meditated on what she said. She may have a point. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Here is what happens. The initial blast is all my own. But as I continue working it slowly turns into a kind of homage to other painters. It's almost inevitable. It then ends up looking like a successful imitation of someone else. Very peculiar. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Is it that time in my life when I have to arrest myself? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> To ruthlessly stop myself from not being myself.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It is better to quit at exactly that point where it is precisely and entirely Patrick McCarthy.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Halt when it reaches the outer limits of my personality.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even if it looks unfinished, quirky, awkward, naive, and ludicrous, rather than keep working and have it slowly turn into another's art. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This is a major decision. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, what's so terrible about that? </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 2, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> God, money problems. Again. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Man, everyone wants to live a long life, but they don't want to experience the inevitable economic cycles of boom and bust. The seven lean years, following the seven fat years. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Oh, hell, I'm just a cork rolling along. I'll get by. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So you liked my new ad?" Dante asked. She emailed me a picture of her small, but evolving business. Dante Designs. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's really in her blood, with a father and mother who are both painters. Also, her mother a graduate architect had an interior design business for years. Dante grew up going to flea markets, thrift shops, art galleries, and antique stores with us. She has perfect taste, and an intuitive head for entrepreneurial ways. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So how is Hannah?</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, fine. I found her a job."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, that'll make a lot of people happy." She quit her last job a few months ago.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah. I don't know if you remember Todd. He has a few of your paintings. He's opening a dog store on Fairfax, and he hired Hannah to work there."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That sounds great. Jackie will be so happy. It's only a few blocks from her, and she'll bring Brando by."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Hannah will be able to ride her bike to work, and she likes that idea."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Dogs are bigger than ever. I'm sure it'll be a success."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Hannah hated working in that office. She was stuck in a cubicle, and now she's out in the world again. Maybe it's not the most high paying job for a college grad, but it's not bad. And I guess the store is really special."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "When is it opening?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "This weekend."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It lets everyone involved breathe easier."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For the last few days I just diddled around, searching for a new style. I quickly rejected a few backward steps. Stuff that took too long, and wasn't very appealing. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I had an idea last night, that merits attention, and encourages me to give it a try. Very simple, very new, but not without its precedents in my artistic past. I think it could lead to something. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Here is the problem. If I am not excited about making something, I'm paralyzed. If I don't thrill to do it, I loathe doing it. Impossible.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even if I'm broke and people come with money in their hands, I just can't respond. I sink into a swamp of inactivity. The very picture of defeat and disgust. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I've trained myself to wait. Even if the walls come tumbling down, and all hell breaks loose. There's no faking it. I may as well be in a strait jacket. I'm powerless. A passive clod of matter. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Waiting. And waiting some more. Waiting for a few drops of creativity to fall from a darkened sky. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Don't abandon me now, God. You haven't taken me this far to watch me go down the drain. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_______________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">April 1, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I just finished the novel I was reading. I realize that I've found the answer to this uncommonly asked question: how should I live? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The answer: immerse yourself in the world's supreme literature. Great classic novels reveal all you need to know. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Literature fills in the blanks left by philosophy, religion, psychology, history, sociology, and science. It teaches you in the most entertaining way possible how the best life can be lived. What to do, what to love, what to avoid, what to pursue. It's a blueprint for adventurous fulfillment. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I've had a hard day." It was Jackie on the phone last night.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I hear it in your voice."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "My father's gone blind." She was crying.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Just like that?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, it's been coming. He had an operation for cataracts five years ago, but it didn't work."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But it can't be total darkness. I saw him a little over a year ago and he was fine."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He can't drive anymore. He just sits at the computer and stares at the screen."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, I don't know what to say. Our senses go bad over the years. He must be 80 by now. My grandmother was blind as a bat when I saw her for the last time. It was very sad. She died at 97."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He'll be 80 in October. How is he going to see my paintings? I always send him pictures when I sell one. I'm sorry to bother you, but I have no one else to talk to."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You don't bother me. I want you to talk to me about anything at any time."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, you always say --- young women and all their problems . . . "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, I've got problems, too, and you listen to them. What are friends for?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He won't be able to see me grow older, or see my child someday, or even see the man I'll marry."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Well, considering some of your choices, that may be a good thing."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's why I like talking to you. You make me laugh, and I always feel better."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The thought that anyone would feel better after talking with me is a little strange."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But, seriously, what's going to happen to him?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The same thing that's going to happen to you and me and everyone else. His body will eventually wear out and he'll get a new one."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You mean he'll die."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "If he wants a new body. You can't get one any other way. I recall a line of poetry by Dylan Thomas. You only know Bob Dylan, but Dylan Thomas is king. Dylan Thomas is the real deal. He wrote this: 'after the first death there is no other.' "</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Okay, Patrick. By the way, my screens are ready. I'll see you tomorrow."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Good night." </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_____________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 31, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Finished some paintings yesterday, and have to ship them off. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I now am convinced of the next step I will take when it comes to the future art.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I will finally only paint what I intensely desire to paint, come what may. I have spent too long, and painted too often pieces that I would rather have skipped and gone on to some other style. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I did this, painting for others, because I needed the money. But I can finally see that having no money and only painting what I love is a better way to go for the next stage. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I like to make sure, and then move forward. In order to really know the truth, I have to willingly become disillusioned. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Disillusionment is a key step in my development. I don't see why people think of disillusionment as something painfully negative, and to be avoided. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Illusions must be shattered in order for truth to shine through. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm a slow learner, but what I finally learn is solid and rooted firmly in real experience. It's not just an airy opinion, or a matter of words. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> This method is fool-proof, but takes a lot of time. A person must have faith in his tempo, and watch carefully the sands left in his hourglass. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> To over-prepare, and then to have one's life cut short by an accident or illness, would be very tragic. Not every dog has his day. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> To make long and elaborate plans is very risky. Better to be able to say "I have lived," rather than "I will live." Do it now.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> For an artist it's better to have painted good art, even if you die before making great art. And infinitely better than no art at all. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">______________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 30, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I noticed an item about a physics experiment where the scientists succeeded in crashing accelerated protons into each other, hoping to gain more information about the ultimate properties of matter.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm not a physicist. It's beyond me. But I trust in the fact that the scientists are fully aware of what they're up to and how it might prove beneficial to humanity. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Here is my concern. Artists have been tempted to follow the lead of scientists and also become as esoteric and highly specialized. Their attitude is "leave us alone, we know what we're doing." Just give us some money. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I don't know. I'm not buying it. Art doesn't have to be difficult. It isn't hard to get. Neither is it an acquired taste. It can be very simple and accessible, and still be great art. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I spent the day driving around town. I stopped off at a used bookstore that I've patronized over the years. It's closing and the prices are reduced. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It was dark inside. The lights were off in the empty aisles. I've gotten to know the owner, a friendly sort. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> He's an older guy. He's inclined to say things like "people our age . . . " I don't know why that rubs me wrong. I have to face it. We belong to the same generation.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But he's also a cautionary study. He immediately starts in on saying how everything is worse these days. It's all going to the dogs. The young people read less and less, and what they do read is trash. The culture is becoming stupider by the hour. What's happened to good manners? The world's gone money mad. And on and on.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I had to point out that people of a certain age have been making the same complaints for thousands of years. If it were true then it won't be much longer until the human race devolves back into apes. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I just don't see it that way. There is no such thing for me as the good old days. The present is less full of shit than the past. And I see no reason why the future won't be a gradual, hard won, improvement on the present. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Why do so many people sentimentalize the past? They confuse their own life with life in general.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> They probably feel marginalized and superfluous as they become wrinkled, fatter, and uglier. Young people don't enjoy old people. They enjoy others of their generation. It's only natural and right. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And anyone with a drop of seasoned intelligence will be bored with the naiveté of a new generation. He can only take so much, and briefly. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I ended up buying a novel for three bucks. By a very entertaining writer that no one reads today. A humorous writer given to very sharp and subtle observations. An author, not a writer. One who knows what's what. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'm sure there are contemporary writers who are just as clever and original, but I don't know of any. Nor am I searching for them. I seem to only appreciate the dead ones. Who are much more alive than the living. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I spent a serene night reading a very engrossing book. It took me to another time and place. Lately I am sensing a veering around to my essential self. As if I've been away for a while. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 29, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> At loose ends this morning. Many less than enjoyable things to do, bills to pay, errands to run. Can't really stay in bed, under the covers. Never was inclined to do that. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I have a horror of not rising and being fully clothed by nine o'clock. And always much earlier. The day never matters. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> And an equal horror of going to bed earlier than midnight. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yo booked another ad," Dante said.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's great."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah. Not much money, though. For an ad from such a big company. $1500. It's for a coke ad."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You'd think they'd pay more."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Commercials mean good money. Models and actors in LA can make a living doing them and nothing else.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Maybe it's because they're only using his arm. Just a shot of his hand holding a can of coke. He has a great looking forearm."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "He does. I'm surprised that it stands out so much. Very muscular."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "With small wrists. That's what people look for in athletes. A muscular body with small ankles and small wrists."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I've never heard that, but it makes sense."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "They don't want cankles."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Or. . . wrarms. I guess that would be the equivalent of wrists as thick and indistinguishable as forearms."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Like Popeye."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Popeye wouldn't make a good hands model. I wonder if ad agencies have a pay scale based on each body part?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm sure they do. Like speaking parts get more than non-speaking parts in movies."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I don't think such things are found in painting. A few, but not that many. Works on canvas are more expensive than works on paper. Bigger canvases are higher priced than smaller ones. But there's no difference between a landscape, a person, animal, abstraction, or a still-life. They all more or less cost the same. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Better hop to it.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 28, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I just returned from our morning at the nearby park. Dante and I watched Amedeo play. He's growing up, and is more adroit and even runs better. His dad was a sprinter who nearly made the Olympic team. So I guess my grandson will be fast. I like the idea.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We sit and talk as the child plays. Usually we catch up on the week's news. Family stuff, business, painting, relationships. Also lately she likes to discuss more abstract issues.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I saw a movie the other night, but I couldn't watch it to the end. About the killing of a woman in some Middle Eastern country."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The Death of a Princess? I watched that. They cut off her head."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, in this independent film they stoned her. Actually her father heaved the first stone. Can you believe that?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Of all the problems facing this world I would say the biggest one is violence against women."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's going to take a long time to solve."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I think this present century is going to devote a lot of time and resources to it. A hundred years probably isn't enough."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But how are people ever going to change?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I believe every human being has an inner responsiveness to right and wrong. People can detect true and false, and therefore reality and delusion."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Eventually the women won't take it any longer." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "The pressure will build. And not stop until the violence does. More advanced countries will lean on the primitive ones."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Speaking of violence, our roommate came home the other day all bloody and bruised. He and his boyfriend beat each other up."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Beat each other up? That goes against stereotypes. Gays being violent towards each other. Are you sure it was his boyfriend?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yes, I'm almost certain. Because the other day someone knocked at the door and delivered some packages."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Flowers?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's what I thought, but no. It was all of our roommate's things that he had at his boyfriend's house. He was returning them, so I guess it's over."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Man, whenever sex is involved it can get pretty explosive. It doesn't matter if it's two women, a woman and a man, or two men. To be rejected at a sexual level drives people over the edge."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It brings out the strongest feelings of all."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Pretty much so." </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">________________ </span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 27, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> My favorite websites say a lot about me. My top three are Huffington Post, New York Times, and TMZ. I like intellectual things and also down and dirty stuff. It rounds out my life. From my brain to my balls. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I can't figure out why I'm so tired," said Jackie on the phone last night around eleven thirty. "I came home and just collapsed. We worked hard today."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I agree. I'm beat, too. You don't get more lively with age."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "But what's my problem? I'm only thirty-two. We sat at the computer for five solid hours. Thanks for helping me. I just can't do it by myself. Especially when it comes to numbers and measurements. I can only do one thing well, and the rest is just impossible."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Yeah, I understand. I spent ten years teaching myself all these programs. I did nothing else. Every night, alone. It doesn't come naturally to me, but I eventually figure it out. Like finding that feature on the printer. It's buried in there, but I somehow dug it out. It took me three years."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You're better at math than me. I can paint, but I'm an idiot when it comes to math."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I'm not much better, believe me. I must have inherited a trace amount from my dad, who was a civil engineer. I've always wished I was smarter, but I guess I have just enough to be able to do my job."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "My father's the only one in my family who's any good at math."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I tried to find a woman with some math skills to have a child with. Judith is Jewish, she talked about taking physics, and as a little girl once met Einstein, and that was enough for me. But I've never noticed that Dante is particularly adept at math. It must be hard to be good-looking and also good at math."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I simply wanted to come home and relax. I bought a bottle of wine for $5.99 but was only able to drink a glass and then I got this massive migraine. What did you eat?"</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I went to this bakery and bought two croissants, and then across the street for some wine. I made two cheese sandwiches with tomato, red bell pepper, and mayonnaise."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So unhealthy."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I really don't give a shit. I feel fine. The Office is on."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Oh, sorry. Bye."</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px"> ___________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 26, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You seem to be in a good mood," I said to Jackie over wine and pizza.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I am in a good mood. I loved buying all those supplies today. And all the stuff from Home Depot yesterday. It made me feel good paying for everything. At the paint store I loved handing Mina my cash. She was surprised to see me without you."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It's really a good sign. Success becomes you. So many angry, frustrated people are transformed by a few lucky breaks. They seem to become someone else entirely."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I feel like myself when I finally have some money."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You could be right. Not everyone is happy to share it when their ship comes in. It's great not to think of you as a liability."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "What do you mean? I did help you with all those paintings."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "Right, and you were well paid for that. But today you're really adding to our lives. It makes me believe that I've made the right choice when I hired you almost ten years ago."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I love feeling so independent."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You know, not everyone is improved by a little success. I know some people who only get worse. They were little thieves when they were broke, but now that they have money they turn into big thieves."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "That's not me."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "No, it isn't. You must come from a good family. And you're a lot more fun to be around when you aren't so angry."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I am an angry person. Very angry. But not as much so tonight." </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I can only hope Jackie's winning streak lasts. It sure takes the pressure off me.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 25, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Back when I was a kid I remember an incident that still has meaning for me. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We used to wear our clothes in a certain way. We rolled up our short sleeve shirts. Just one turn. Our tee shirts, and even the button down ones. I liked doing it. I was prepared to do it forever.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I also had a friend. He was a little older. I realized that I admired certain things about him. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Then one day I saw him with his sleeves unrolled. Completely flat and hanging straight down. The sleeve looked too long, and floppy, almost to his elbow. Very unattractive. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> He looked strange, but he didn't seem to mind. Someone might have said something to him, but it didn't matter. From that day forward he always wore his shirts that way. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I even detected a quiet confidence surrounding him. Or was it in my imagination? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> By this simple act he became more secure, but it raised questions in me. It increased my anxiety. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I was conflicted. I said to myself. I like Dick, he's cool, but he's wrong about his sleeves. Dead wrong. They look better rolled once.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I will never, ever, roll down my sleeves. I will not follow his mistake. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Months went by. I kept my sleeves rolled. But when I looked in the mirror I sensed a growing dissatisfaction. I even let myself see how I appeared without rolling them. It wasn't too bad. I suppose I could get used to it. After all, it was little easier in the morning. I would have one less thing to do. To worry about. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Then that day finally arrived. I stop rolling my sleeves. I had given in. I had followed his example. His lead. I was a follower. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But it was a better way to go. I could be myself, and be behind the eight ball, or follow Dick and be ahead of the curve, in advance of the rest of them. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Little by little, I became less disturbed. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But, really, it was only because of him. It wasn't my idea. I didn't do it first. And I knew who did. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So there was a residue of shame attached to this act. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> What I didn't know then, and still do not know today, was whether or not he also saw someone with his sleeves unrolled. Or did he invent it all by himself? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Was he, too, an imitator, or an originator? If he was an imitator, he was like me. But if he was an originator, that was something different. Something better. He was on a higher plane.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Nor did I know if I was also being silently observed by other boys. Who, because of my new style, they also had followed suit. What Dick was to me, I was to them. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I'll never know. Even back then if I was smart enough to question my friend I only had a few years to do it. He died suddenly in a car wreck. He had just turned twenty. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> So, it remains a mystery. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The times change, and we change with them. Okay, that's certainly true. But how does this change occur? Does it occur like it did in my case, or not? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> As a painter, I have been faced with this problem over and over. It's actually a big issue with me.</span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">_________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 24, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I cashed my check and opened a new account, and put the money in, and now I can't get it out," Jackie said. "There's a 24 wait on my new card."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "So? It's not as if the money isn't there."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I know, but it's so frustrating."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> If it isn't one thing it's another. Jackie's always in crisis, racing between the last one and the next one. It may be her age, her character, her style. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Or a combination of all three.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But she's talented and has a lot of drive.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "When I went to these people's home the other day who commissioned me to do some paintings they looked shocked. We thought you must be around seventy. How old are you anyway, they asked? I told them 32. They couldn't believe how I paint like that when I'm so young."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Well, that's good. But still, why all the turmoil? The accidents and mistakes. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It makes me uneasy about the human race. If superior people trip over themselves all day long, what about everyone else? How're they going to do it? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You live best when you're doing what you do best. Life then goes as smoothly as it can. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But when it get bumpy again, and stays bumpy, it's time to start up the questioning. Something is off. You've been drifting. Ignoring your compass. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I see it in myself. My misreading of the signs. Or failure to believe in what I see. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> The truth is silent but persuasive. It's like a splinter that can't be easily removed. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It may seem like a long shot, like a fantasy, but my best work is about to emerge. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Everything up until now has been just a finger exercise. Done by someone else. Someone I hardly recognize. Someone who worked for an oppressive, alienating, huge corporation. Called the public. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> An eyeless unruled heaving mob. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I tried to give them what they wanted. What I thought they wanted. What they said they wanted. But it turns out they didn't want it after all. Not very much. Nor any longer. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I was duped. Because the public has been duped. Against their better judgment they've imagined that they want this when in fact they want that. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But that isn't available. It hasn't been created. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Not yet. But it will be. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">__________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 23, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Do people understand that everything is on loan? All their stuff, their most admired possessions. Their beloved who they can't do without. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Their bodies. And even their minds. Which are mostly hijacked by others anyway. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That house you now live in will be lived in by somebody else. Your clothes will be worn by another. Your new car driven by another. Your favorite chair will support another ass. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That silver fork you stick in your mouth will slide into another's mouth. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It all comes from somewhere else, and goes back to somewhere else. Soon enough. Quickly.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> We're sandwiched between others. Before and after belong to them. That naked slice of now is ours. Partly ours. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> But it's enough. It's enough to help you realize that even such a sliver of existence is not that bad. It's more than enough to take away the worst anxiety. The dreariness. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> It's more than enough to let you understand that being alive forever is better than being dead forever. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Being alive for a short time, that's the problem. Even a hundred years is a joke. It's still just a snap of the fingers.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> That's where the pressure and the disappointment take place. If you were alive forever you'd finally get it straightened out. You'd learn how to look forward to anything. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even a thousand more years would start to calm a person way down. But imagine a million million. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> You're tragic, you're anguished, and your head is about to detonate, because you don't have enough experience. There's the real rub. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even when awake, you're asleep.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even at seventy you're an embryo.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Take the biggest life: it's just a false start.</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I seem to be recovering my energy. But weariness has its compensations. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I took another order for a portrait yesterday, and Jackie is running around trying to buy enough supplies for a group of new paintings. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Even bad times wear out. You can't make them last any longer than the good times. </span></p> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">____________________</span></h3> <h3> <span style="font-size: 14px">March 22, 2010</span></h3> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "There's a Montessori school a few blocks from here," Dante said. "I don't want Amedeo going to those terrible schools that I hated."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "You know, you went to a Montessori school."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I did? I don't remember it."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "It was in Canada. I think you went for a year or so, between two and four."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> "I don't remember anything about Canada. Only when we moved to Florida."</span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Later I mentioned this to Jackie. She said she also went to a Montessori school. </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> Now it's beginning to make sense. They have something in common, Jackie and Dante. Could it be due to early childhood development? </span></p> <p> <span style="font-size: 14px"> I think the only reason Dante attended a Montessori school was because at the time for us it was free. I didn't even know
