In my low periods, I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves? And what was the ultimate goal? To have one’s work caged in art’s great zoos- the Modern, the Met, the Louvre?
I craved honesty, yet found dishonesty in myself. Why commit to art? For self-realization, or for itself? It seemed indulgent to add to the glut unless one offered illumination.
Often I’d sit and try to write or draw, but all of the manic activity in the streets, coupled with the Vietnam War, made my efforts seem meaningless. I could not identify with political movements. In trying to join them I felt overwhelmed by yet another form of bureaucracy. I wondered if anything I did mattered.
Robert had little patience with these introspective bouts of mine. He never seemed to question his artistic drives, and by his example, I understood that what matters is the work: the string of words propelled by God becoming a poem, a weave of colour and graphite scrawled upon the sheet that magnifies His motion. To achieve within the work a perfect balance of faith and execution. From this state of mind comes a light, life-charged.
I started doing this thing where I draw over the various scraps of paper I write on during lectures. My writing is a mixture of my stream of consciousness and notes between me and my friend. Mostly incomprehensible to anyone else but I really like clusters of words and associations so I started drawing in little things related to the words to allow them to take on more of a visual form and then I tied it all together with a massive doodle of David Byrne. Other artists can be spotted (there are two of Warhol) in the mess as this is from my contemporary art lecture.
Acrylics markers inks pens, graphite, colour pencil, nail-polish, charcoal pencil.