I have no direction, and consequently I am pulled in all directions: one minute coveting the scumbled texture of an ancient earthen wall, the next minute mentally mixing the perfect pale peach to match the scales of the koi fish I just saw.
Pale peach, white, a splotch of black -- how can that fish be a master of composition and I cannot?
I start paintings with one thing in mind, and half-way through I change that mind, inspired by something completely different. I want Kozuki's bold fields of color, Ruth's bright brushstrokes, Tomoya's soft daubs, Karina's geometry. Larry Rivers' acuity.
I am part chameleon, part charlatan.
Meanwhile, I have nothing conclusive to say. It's just a jumble of pieces in there, a human kaleidoscope: reflecting the accumluation of potentially usable bits, the tinest shift changes the entire scene.
I had a dream once that I was hanging my art for a show, and all the pieces were these awful, muddy, lumpy figure studies. I started to panic -- where is my REAL work? Will I know it when I see it?
It keeps escaping me, that thing I'm trying to do, yearning to do. Reaching with my whole elastic brain and don't even know what question I'm asking.