Last night we went to Kingston to hear some live bluegrass. I tried a new beer called Old Capital but I didn’t really sing or dance which seems a tragic way to enjoy tunes. Instead I found a comfy coffee house chair, took off my sandal feet and tried to imagine the life of the young artist whose work hung about the place. He was definitely early college, experimenting with materials but not pushing them. He has found his signature style all too soon and wallows comfortably in it, announcing is name flamboyantly in all too readable letters on each canvas. The only piece I liked was an honest portrait in the back corner. It didn’t match the rest but was obviously too good to go unseen. I hope his next show is in that vein.
My own painting has come to a formidable standstill. I’ve had the same canvas stretched in my painting spot for over a week, I’ve been working it, but nothing. I have nothing to paint.
SARK says that even when uninspired you must work, so does Stephen King. David Salle says he wonders if everyone struggles to make the next move the way he does. I do. If Griffin was an artist and not a real-estate shark he would be so much like David Salle, and equally as talented. The only things I share with Salle are the struggle and boredom with plot. The only things I share with Griffin are shame and discomfort. I hope that works itself out at some point. SARK would tell me to write, call, tell the truth. But I’ve always been drawn to the methods of guys like Salle and I imagine he would plaster our story to a swath of fabric and pin a an Australian flag and pack of aspirin next to it. Make of it what you will. Count it like the stars but truly, it’s just a corner segment of a finished work and it TRULY means nothing but a moment of spontaneous irony has passed and its composition is now unoriginal.