A bad idea written down is far better and far more useful to you than a blank sheet of paper and a mythical piece of brilliance that has been stuck in your head out of fear of failure. Go ahead and fail. Then make it better.
He poured the coffee Into the cup He put the milk Into the cup of coffee He put the sugar Into the coffee with milk With a small spoon He churned He drank the coffee And he put down the cup Without any word to me
He lit One cigarette He made circles With the smoke He shook off the ash Into the ashtray Without any word to me Without any look at me
He got up He put on His hat on his head He put on His raincoat Because it was raining And he left Into the rain Without any word to me Without any look at me
To Make a Portrait of a Bird First paint a cage With an open door Then paint Something pretty Something simple Something beautiful Something useful For the bird Then place the canvas against a tree In a garden In a wood Or in a forest Hide yourself behind the tree Without speaking Without moving... Sometimes the bird will arrive soon But it could also easily take many years For it to decide Wait Wait if necessary for years The rapidity or slowness of the arrival of the bird Has no connection with the success of the painting When the bird arrives If it arrives Observe the most profound silence Wait until the bird enters the cage And when it has entered Gently close the door with the brush Then Erase one by one all of the bars While being careful not to touch any of the feathers of the bird Then make a portrait of the tree Choosing the most beautiful of its branches For the bird Paint also the green foliage and the freshness of the wind The dust of the sun And the noise of the creatures of the grass in the heat of summer And then wait for the bird to decide to sing If the bird does not sing It's a bad sign A sign that the painting is no good But if it does sing it's a good sign A sign that you can sign. Then you gently pull out One of the feathers of the bird And you sign your name in a corner of the painting.
Trans. Eugene Levich
Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Oiseau - par Jacques Prévert
“To offer no resistance to life is to be in a state of grace, ease, and lightness. This state is then no longer dependent upon things being in a certain way, good or bad. It seems almost paradoxical, yet when your inner dependency on form is gone, the general conditions of your life, the outer forms, tend to improve greatly. Things, people, or conditions that you thought you needed for your happiness now come to you with no struggle or effort on your part, and you are free to enjoy and appreciate them - while they last. All those things, of course, will still pass away, cycles will come and go, but with dependency gone there is no fear of loss anymore. Life flows with ease.”
IT’S A PRIVILEGE, YOU KNOW, TO PAINT AND IT TAKES UP A LOT OF TIME AND IT MEANS THERE’S A LOT OF THINGS YOU DON’T DO. BUT STILL, WITH ME, PAINTING WAS MORE THAN A PROFESSION, IT WAS ALSO AN OBSESSION. I HAD TO PAINT. Alice Neel
"The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep." - From My Ántonia Via
“My landscapes are not only beautiful, or nostalgic, with a Romantic or classical suggestion of lost Paradises, but above all ‘untruthful.’ By ‘untruthful,’ I mean the glorifying way we look at Nature. Nature, which in all its forms is always against us, because it knows no meaning, no pity, no sympathy, because it knows nothing and is absolutely mindless, the total antithesis of ourselves.” –GerhardRichter .
Love and honor. They are the two great things, and now they’re dimmed and blighted. Today, love is just sex and sentimentality. Love is really a recognition of truth, a recognition of another person’s integrity and truth in a way that is compatible with — that makes both of you light up when you recognize the quality in the other. That’s what love is. It’s a recognition of singularity… And love is giving and giving and giving … not looking for any return. Until you do that, you can’t love.
The pieces are expressed in two layers: the materials that I paint on, and what is painted on this surface. Both of these elements are integral to the work.
The work begins unplanned. Line drawings, markings, painted strokes and scribbles are made with numerous mediums including oil, lumber stick, resin stick, charcoal, graphite and ink. I work on either simple wood panels or choose from a collection of found materials – such as old tabletops, cabinet doors, wood blocks wrapped in canvas, and old book covers.
Recently the work has expanded to installation pieces and books. Installations involve images drawn/painted directly on the gallery walls, which are eventually painted over. The transient nature of the images is part of the work. When working with the books, images are either added to the pages, or pages are removed and new pages are stitched in.
The drawings/markings are created primarily with my non-dominant hand. The use of my left hand allows me to draw in an unpracticed manner – an attempt to capture the purity or innocence of a child’s drawing. I am not conscious while I work of representing a specific story or idea in the pieces. The exact meaning of a piece in many instances eludes me – in the end I am more often struck by an emotional response to what I paint and draw.
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans Atop the broken universal clock: The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens. Out painted stages fall apart by scenes While all the actors halt in mortal shock: The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans.
Streets crack through in havoc-split ravines As the doomstruck city crumbles block by block: The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.
Fractured glass flies down in smithereens; Our lucky relics have been put in hock: The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans.
The monkey's wrench has blasted all machines; We never thought to hear the holy cock: The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.
Too late to ask if end was worth the means, Too late to calculate the toppling stock: The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans, The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.