Return to Painting
Ink drawing, made with a red sable brush at my own kitchen table in 1993.
The drawing above, made with ink, might as well be also called a painting. Today I thought of the following scene so long ago.
At a kitchen table in rural Illinois, 1979: "Uh oh, this is not sweet tea." — my thought as I took a swig from one of two plastic cups in front of me. I went to the sink to spit, then returned to my painting.
Regaining my path— whether correcting life's mistakes, working past unexpected obstacles, or learning skills I need — I keep returning to painting.
I like to make things. Most of all I like to make art.
The thought that the paint rinse cup and the cup that held my tea still exist somewhere these 40 years later is painful. And all the thousands of cups and bags and wraps I've used in 40 years are still out there somewhere. What can I do with that? What can I do about it?
Nothing.
Return to painting.
In 1993 when a levee broke allowing the Illinois River to submerge the farm where I grew up, what could I do? Nothing. Return to painting.
In 2009 when my image of myself imploded, there was much to do and undo — all of it painful. How to make sense of it?
Return to painting.
