Mr. Pollock

I remeber the Life magazine clip of Jackon Pollock, shoes and paints paint covered--and how he had to stoop to slop an slap his paint against the canvas. It's an amazing video, because it is the footage of a genius--and how hard could that be, right?

So I started with red and just started splattering paint and nothing about it took on any form or meaning or certainly not shape. In fact, what I wanted was non-shape; now that, I had. Formless bright red against a white background.

It looked like an accident had happened.

And you know what: one had. And I was the author of it.

I started painting, if you want to call it that, with not the slightest idea in my head of where I was headed. Now, I know that Hemmingway once said he never knew from sentence to sentence where he was going and that the ending of a book always surprized him. That may or may not be true.

But here's a point to make: I am not Hemingway, nor Pollock...

More to come. In the meantime please take a moment to visit abstract inclinations.