Looking at Rothko and thinking about seeing, Paris, 2023.
No under and over: no stable layers- nothing is merely above or below anything else
Nothing is completely isolated or separate- our perceptions of an area are totally dépendant on those around it
Beginning with the background…? Washes and scumbling as start points AND endpoints.
Border spaces are always active
The line on the wall made by the color on the side edge of the stretched canvas
Clouds and shadows: infinite weight
Entre intention et aléatoire, letting the paint run…
The effaced edges bring relationships into focus: they make the picture
A shape needs requires adheres to the color field next to it
A formula endlessly repeated as a window to infinity: 3 planes of color on a rectangular plane are 3 propositions decisions from among endless possibilities.
Elevating stains to the level of fresh paint
Color fields within fields that only emerge after you see the rest of what you were looking at
Equal sign zero eleven arrête before they becomes symbols; remaining on the precipice of legibility
Subtle gradients making us aware that light always and forever affects what we see
Windows to what is past or through them but windows also as objects in their own right. Maybe we are also panes of glass.
Edges bleeding and absorbing paint pigment dirt
Rust on the sea under a waning moon: an empty Polaroid. The dimensions of the canvas making and unmaking the image.
Painting spilling paint (not spilled).
My flag cannot just be mine and your flag cannot just be yours.
All soil can be fertile if we let it give birth…
Can landscapes exist without us? A horizontal line is always a horizon. Lunar landscapes always come from Terra. From us.
The rich full flavor of welled-up joy near the end.
I want to see all of those things.
