January 29, 2012

Several days painting, getting ready for the show. I managed to take not too unsuccessful photos for use on the postcards, which, in my precipitous way, I have already designed and ordered. Richmond came in one day, bringing his blazing eyes with him. He lent my a copy of Kandinsky’s “On the Spiritual in Art.” It’s very gushy. I’m less impressed than I might have been because I was predestined to agree with it. Makes me want to write a big fat treatise on aesthetics, though I realize–once I begin to contemplate it–that I don’t really know what I believe on the subject. Nor should I, necessarily. It’s like a bird writing a treatise on ornithology. Maybe Kandinsky wavers between schoolgirl gush and impenetrable technicalities for the same reason. A man from Tennessee walks in another day. He talks way too much. He turns out to be a friend of JS. He gives me the latest news, which, though new, is pretty much a repeat of the last stories about him. We live life as we do. On one level, me with an art show seems presumptuous. The pathetic comfort I take is realizing I have seen very much worse, very often. A little boy–maybe three–comes into the studio and names all the animals I have painted, correctly. His mother stop can’t repeating “don’t touch. . . don’t touch. . . don’t touch. . . “ Hesitant to say, “He can touch if he wants to.”

Wondering if we will ever have real winter. My adamantine windflower has become a cloud, a host.

Set up a webpage for art and writing news, but send everyone the wrong address three times. Finally give up. For the moment. My new camera has sent me into a convulsion of recording.

On my mind all morning, in vivid, detailed flashes, are certain corners and segments of streets in London.

Il mio sole ha il sole e intorno a lui ruota obbediente