on a large sheet of paper he randomly slopped thin redpaint with a broad brush

                                                                                      then    he stoodup an stoodback

he slowly walked around the table looking at it

he was silent a long time

he sighed You did it because the mind will lead somewhere

                                                                 It is a frame of mind art is a frame of mind

he was gropingtryin to assess his

Wha to make   make  of this asymmetric Rorschach

the paint viscous like ink

the dribblings SPLASHesNO no

                                lashes       kinetic violence                      Im guilty

sympathetically Pray tell of what? 

     Wha

                  Nothing specificnothing in mind  nothing to put my finger on     Just how Im feeling

Then if I may, might the painting be at an end?    Done.

Thas not how I work

Maybe your work is done.

                             Maybe . . you’ve captured what you truly meant. You mixed the paint, troubled yourself getting it quite right, taped the page down, turned the paper . . you selected the brush from among many after fingeringweighin them, you practised manymany times how you might throw . which hand.

I believe you have startled yourself.

There is nothing more to be done; nothing more than where, the frame, angle, height, lighting.

 

Who was he to argue with himself

1753,  Day-between-Two-Ts,  17  1. 21

1102,  Saturday,  27  11. 21