unknown

I often start painting by the idea that I will copy some famous artist, say Motherwell, but I will do it even better. That last about two seconds, because I will start thinking, no let’s do Hiroshige, no Kenneth Patchen, no Miller, how about Tobey?

Meanwhile, back at the farm so to speak, I’ve already got paint on canvas.

And then the annoying, cloying little voice comes in saying

Copy me.

Ok, who are you?

No one.

What do you mean no one?

Giggle giggle.

Sickening. That of course is my demented childish subconscious, trying to be cute! Christ, talk like an adult for once. You are the oldest part of me. Standing there with his head bowed and hands folded. Do you think I can paint with this stupid conversation going on?

Don’t know.

Well I can’t.

Don’t care.

Ok, well how am I supposed to copy you, you dumb jerk? What have you done that I’m supposed to copy?

Everything.

Oh, you are sooo deep.

Butt head.

This is insane. I am doing a Frankenthaler, I mean a Picasso.

Picabia, Pirandello. Petrarch, Penis face.

Those are not even painters, except Picabia, well I don’t think they painted. I need to look them up when I get done here…