This work never had a name. It was painted over, became something else. I do not remember what other painting it became, it was years ago. But I kept this photograph. Painting is a leap into the unknown, trying to create something that has never been done before. One has no real way to know the value of one’s work, except for this inner response, sometimes, that comes from some place, also unknown, deep inside. Some inner resonance of the feeling, like an acknowledgement that what is being painted is trustworthy. This is the only guide. But there is a lot of uncertainty for very few moments of clarity. More often than not, I am unsure. Painting is a process of doing and undoing, trying, failing and doing again, driven by some stubborn impulse to continue, even though one does not really know the destination. On the way one is helped often by the raw beauty of the medium, by the depth of the color on the canvas. But one has to let go of this in order not to fall for this fascination and lose the painting, lose the attention for what is developing. One is helped, also, by this impression of freedom that comes from exploring a path never traveled before, even though there is a price to pay for this freedom.
Sometimes, like here, I find an old photograph of a work that I was not sure of, that was painted over and disappeared. And I see that maybe I overlooked a possibility, a promise.
A friend said this about poetry, and I believe it is very true also for painting:
That “perhaps no poem [or painting] is ever finally completed, but merely reaches a level where it can be presented as the outline or indication of something that might be but will never be”.
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