Yesterday I was out of my old house. I found then that as I ran into stashed photos of it on my hard drive, I wanted to viciously erase. The gardens, the herbs, the yards, the trees, and all those images which were used to sell it online. Like our whole life was for sale. That's crazy thinking but it's not unusual for me to radically divest. I do not have a lot of clothes, books and many things - I ditch the past in an effort to embrace the new in front of me.
Save diaries of course. I have 160 notebooks now and when I want to look back, I look at those. Reading of exhibitions is especially grueling, as are ideas about bodies of work which now would make one wince. Artists grow up in public.
And save of course the art of collage, in which new and old become one. My first collage was of Lucy, one from the 1930s, when she was not the savvy business woman and master comedian we know now. She was a Babe. I remember it well because the collage was glued to an index box I used in debate in sophomore year in high school. Well, we are full circle because my most recent Target (No. 61) - and maybe my last - is again of Lucy (see above). She is a God here. As is often the case, the element which initially seemed most precious - her flaming red 1940s red pompadour - was the one to be sacrificed.