I walk from 88th Street on the Upper East Side to the west side of Harlem and 125th Street, pick up supplies, then to the studio at 107th. Full sun, my skin rendered pink; I see a veiled mystic in Central Park. A trek replete with strangers and bumping into them.
I reach the studio and listen to Mozart’s 1st and 2nd. I make a painting which isn’t Cubist; rather, it’s a cabbage patch or a crop:
What if, when painting, it’s not my energy that matters, but only the making—only the making of the painting—NOT the style, NOT the concept, NOT the aesthetic, NOT even the relationship, just the making?