The picture is a field of colors and lines. Within the framework of whatever size rectangle, there’s an arrangement of layers of paint, brushstrokes, or in a drawing, lines, scratches of pigment, dots, patches, bits.
Another way to think of it is as being like a television screen or a photograph or like the image you see on your computer. Every square inch of the image has maybe hundreds of little dots, depending on the media. These dots mingle and blend to form the colors you see and their precise positions determine what kinds of shapes you see, whether the colors are light or dark, whether the transitions are subtle or stark.
As a painter you do something similar to arrange little dots or squares or bits. You put patches of color down that blend to form whatever the picture depicts.
Or it is like a tapestry and the warp and weft are the precise positions of color.
Painting something with precision means having to find the exact places that these colors and lines should occupy.
And what if one thinks of the reality itself, the reality over there as yet another tapestry whose warp and weft are light and air? You look at that tapestry to paint your own tapestry-simulacrum.
However, of late I’ve searched for the loose idea, the sketch whose virtue lies its evocativeness and have sought the ineluctable, ineffable form whose loose logic is a delight in itself. And to what tapestry does it refer? To an inner tapestry woven in thought, perhaps, or in desire?