“Je dispose mon sujet comme je le veux, puis je me mets à le peindre, comme ferait un enfant. Je veux qu’un rouge soit sonore et résonne comme une cloche; si ce n’est pas cela, j’ajoute encore des rouges et d’autres couleurs jusqu’ à ce que j’y arrive. Je ne suis pas plus malin que ça. ”
[d’apres une interview avec Walter Pach en 1912]
You don’t always know what you’ll do and what you won’t. Sometimes you start something, fully intend to finish it, but something stops you. And truly not every drawing is one that you can go back to — even if it had good ideas, or you liked it a lot — not even if you’re a workaholic can you finish everything.
But the drawing that you stop, doesn’t just arbitrarily end. It has a certain identity, a certain something that was the sum total of what you were thinking by that point in time. It holds suggestions in it of what was coming next, I think. It’s a fingerprint of the mind, a trace of a cloud, of an emotion or a will.
I’ve been drawing lots of flowers lately. I wake up, I start drawing. And the drawings are sometimes like dreams, and sometimes of course you wake up before the dream has concluded, and yet your mind has not exactly created a fragment, not entirely. The brain is still sending you messages even in the unfinished thing, like smoke signals.
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