I am troubled by the shading in John’s face: underneath his eyes—so important.
“Patience,” I say to myself.
I have heard that admonition through the years, hollow, utterly sadistic.
The pleasure in painting is perfection!
I have heard that.
Pleasure and perfection are illusions, friend!
An artist frames his illusions and gilds the frames and people gape at the illusions and then foster more illusions.
Years ago, as a youngster, I liked to sit in front of the marble façade of Santa Maria Novella.
In the wintertime it could be a balmy spot.
Girls...but I would sit there and imagine that the twin obelisks in front of the church were being lugged off on the backs of their immense bronze turtles, four turtles for each obelisk. (What mad sculptor designed turtles to hold up obelisks!) Ai, the marble columns tottered across the piazza; the monks and priests, with penises dangling, dashed out of church and monastery, shrieking to heaven for help.