Sometimes painting is like sex like riding a rusty bike I am swallowed by the moon I swallow the moon white white white endless a ghostly wind blows snow off the trees a branch appears A secret code a graphic statement intrusive yet magnificent alerted by the retreat of possibilities I catch them on the run as they go by the promise elegiac with a certain sweetness like new honey the color of amber in Chiapas If it is really to be art it must have a container a symphonic formulation a crescendo a beginning and an end some small sadness a witness to the birth of the impossible and the unthinkable to the holocaust aunts and uncles many lost cousins then a childhood dominated by duck and cover these are the ghosts that rise from the lake the cry of a coyote walking across the frozen lake it stops in the middle standing perfectly still frozen in space and time listening hunger is not enough but it is everything I look through my grand studio window hours go by without trying without a reminder of civilization or intention I pause my brush swimming in air I am thinking about the fish that still swim at the bottom of the lake where the water remembers how to move the yelp of the coyote later in the night has become personal like eye contact with the gorilla at the zoo Eastham, MA (Cape Cod) 2015
Hiding Out