I want to tell the whole story of my art, of your art, of anybody’s art. Whatever I learned, I got there by a particular path. It wasn’t always a brilliant success. I’ve made many bad drawings along the way. (What about you?) Yet sometimes it happens also to be true that a drawing had a specific purpose, humble though it might have been, that formed a necessary bridge from here to there.
I find old notebooks stashed away that hold strange and mysterious pictures. Sometimes I cannot identify what it was I drew. Cannot tell up from down. Don’t know what purpose they served, what thing I sought. They are things that just float. Fragments of fragments, unhinged from any goal.
Yet they have a weird sort of charm (for me at least). They are the refrigerator pictures of my artistic childhood. I was an adult in making them, but I was only taking baby steps toward whatever destination I had set for myself. They are visual mumblings.
Some of them, that is. This one is a brilliant success.