Making those prints prompted a remembrance of the road to that particular kind of reductive image making and what it meant to me. Above you see the cover of Book No. 65, my diary covering Dec 22, 1991 through March 2, 1992. I had been sick but was edging my way back. I wrote about part of that time via collage here, but there was a paint story too, a hidden pact. In the diary I made note of the Mondrian cover of simple black and white. I tell the diary that I still wish to make abstract paintings. I don’t know how I will get there, I just know that I still want to. The text was like a whisper.
Jesus, 1992. Unless you make work everyday, think of art everyday, live, talk, walk, it’s difficult to forge ahead. All on the back burner for years, unsaid but never forgotten. It took another ten years to arrive at the starting place for the forms I wanted to see, the assault I wished to make. When I read the journey, the paintings are more than paintings, as the collages are more than collages. It’s a life and death struggle because while everyone said I would get well, no one said “Keep your art dreams.”
I’m trying to come to some kind of terms on how I can share the diaries. Recently I heard a lot about how we only have so much time on earth. Personally, I don’t believe in death, but nonetheless I wouldn’t mind sharing before someone else comes along and does whatever to it. It’s possible I will just start another site, which starts right in 1969, first book. Nothing genius about those days, age 12 all the way, but to start elsewhere seems not quite right.