|
It
is
the
first
real
spring
day
of
the
year,
and
as
it
often
happens
on
the
first
spring
day
I
feel
a
strong
urge
to
paint.
As
I
enter
my
studio
everything
appears
to
be
in
proper
order,
waiting,
beckoning,
inviting
me
to
begin.
I
start
squeezing
my
colors
onto
the
palette,
greeting
each
of
these
old
friends
heartily
as
I
free
them
on
by
one
from
the
darkness
of
the
tube
into
the
light
of
days
without
end.
All
of
these
color
genies
have
done
prodigious
service
for
me
in
the
past,
and
they
are
indicating
a
willingness
to
do
so
again.
After
serving
them
a
small
sprinkle
of
water
I
sit
down
to
stare
at
my
piece
of
paper
for
an
unknown
period
of
time,
as
is
my
custom.
This
full
sheet
of
Fabriano
Artistico
280
lb.
hot
press
paper
is
brilliantly
white.
Dazzling!
What
is
it
that
wants
to
live
in
this
palace
ablaze
with
emptiness?
Part
of
my
job
is
to
find
out,
so
I
begin
searching
the
archives
of
my
mind
for
possible
candidates.
There
are
lots
of
things
I
like
to
put
into
my
paintings,
and
there
is
always
room
for
new
ones.
And
since
among
the
things
I
like
to
include
are
all
the
colors,
it
is
quite
a
long
list,
especially
considering
that
no
"thing',
including
color,
is
ever
used
the
same
way
twice.
So
now
I
am
looking
at
a
continent
I
have
not
yet
created,
examining
a
battlefield
where
the
battle
is
yet
to
be
fought,
and
staring
at
a
scented
bed
waiting
for
the
lovemaking
to
begin.
I
am
contemplating
an
empty
space,
in
any
event,
where
things
are
about
to
happen.
There
is
always
the
option
of
brushing
on
an
active,
exuberant
color
for
the
opening
curtain,
an
orange
or
a
red
or
a
magenta,
or
perhaps
a
cobalt
blue,
and
let
it
give
me
hints
and
tips
and
clues
about
what
to
do
next.
That
has
always
been
one
of
my
favorite
ways
to
begin
a
painting.
On
this
occasion
I
decide
to
open
the
drama
with
a
patch
of
magenta
at
the
top
and
a
patch
of
cobalt
blue
at
the
bottom.
It
has
always
been
my
habit
to
paint
vertically,
but
not
every
time.
The
saying
is
that
those
who
paint
vertically
are
concerned
with
heaven
and
hell,
while
those
who
paint
horizontally
are
more
interested
in
earthly
matters.
Being
interested
in
everything,
I
should
be
painting
on
circular
paper.
No
matter.
There
vertical
format
suits
me
fine.
I
get
the
paper
good
and
wet
and
stare
at
it
for
a
while,
trying
to
decide
where
to
put
the
magenta
and
how
much,
ditto
the
cobalt
blue.
After
a
bit
I
begin
to
feel
like
a
go
player
competing
with
himself.
Where
to
place
the
first
black
stone?
Where
to
put
the
white?
The
opening
is
important
insofar
as
it
may
set
the
tone
for
everything
that
follows.
The
decision
to
use
cobalt
blue
and
magenta
was
not
as
important
as
deciding
where
to
put
them.
Then
of
course
there
is
the
question
of
how
much
paint,
what
size
and
shape.
In
a
game
of
go
you
don't
have
to
worry
about
the
size
and
shape
of
the
stones,
nor
the
color,
only
where
to
put
them,
which
is
complex
enough
by
itself.
The
go
game
is
a
preparation
for
battlefield
considerations,
the
strategy
and
focus.
"I
shall
place
my
orange
here
to
support
the
left
flank,"
etcetera.
I
am
also
a
mid-nineteenth
century
explorer
trekking
into
the
interior
of
Africa.
I
have
to
be
as
prepared,
alert,
and
attentive
as
possible
in
order
to
learn
from
the
things
that
happen
as
I
proceed.
Not
only
do
I
need
all
my
wits
and
wildness,
I
am
a
scholar
of
sorts
as
well,
absorbed
in
the
understanding
of
what
I
have
just
created.
Later,
as
the
painting
develops,
I
will
become
a
matador,
passionate,
fearless
and
precise.
In
the
beginning
I
may
be
tentative,
feeling
out
the
terrain
while
taking
a
long
look
into
the
prism
we
call
imagination.
I can never help asking the question What
kind
of
world
do
I
want
to
create? and What shall I pluck from the infinite possibilities?
This
is
the
stage
at
which
the
artist
starts
to
become
Creator,
a
god
making
a
new
universe,
or
at
least
a
glimpse
of
a
new
universe.
This
would
seem
to
be
the
most
exalted
phase
of
the
painting
process.
But
is
it?
Sometimes
this
phenomenon
is
followed
by
a
trancelike
state
in
which
I
observe
myself
being
a
medium
working
at
the
direction
of
an
unknown
force.
This
is
when
the
conscious
decision-making
halts,
and
all
the
powers
that
exist
within
conspire
to
guide
the
hand
that
holds
the
brush.
My
mind
wanders
for
a
long
time
as
I
stare
at
the
blank
paper.
Eventually
I
stop
fantasizing
and,
after
rewetting
the
paper,
brush
a
gob
of
magenta
onto
the
top
area
in
a
kind
of
bent
oblong
shape
with
a
little
tail
on
the
end.
This
I
gaze
at
in
a
paroxysm
of
joy
and
excitement,
realizing
that
I
have
now
embarked
upon
my
adventure.
I
wait
for
the
magenta
to
reveal
its
purpose
to
me,
listening
for
its
voice.
Perhaps
this
dollop
of
red-violet
has
a
message
from
the
cave
of
the
ancients,
or
maybe
it
has
something
to
do
with
the
Magenta
Gate
of
the
Mountain
of
Flowers
and
Fruit.
Or
it
could
well
be
a
warning
and
an
invitation
from
the
Sirens
of
the
Magenta
Isle.
Or
it
might
be
a
signal
from
the
beautiful
memory
that
is
just
barely
still
alive.
Sometimes
a
monolog
will
not
do
for
long;
another
voice
must
enter
the
fray
in
order
for
the
conversation
to
begin
in
earnest.
Thus
I
reason
as
I
wet
the
paper
again,
then
apply
a
brush
full
of
cobalt
blue.
Aha!
Much
better!
Now
the
instruments
of
the
orchestra
can
begin
making
their
appearances.
Now
the
still
vast
spaces
of
white
can
begin
to
realize
their
potential
for
a
world
filled
with
wonders.
Now
the
poetry
of
color
can
begin
to
work
its
way
through
those
great
in-betweens
of
a
universe
without
time…
I
look
at
the
paper
with
its
two
colors
and
wonder
what
it
is
they
want
to
be.
What
are
they
telling
me,
individually
and
in
unison?
It
is
important
to
understand
this,
although
I
know
I
can
never
understand
it
in
the
reasoning
part
of
my
mind.
What
I
really
need
is
for
them
to
give
me
a
sign,
an
indication
of
what
the
next
move
should
be.
The
trick
is
to
comprehend
what
they
are
saying.
I
know
these
two
very
well,
and
I'm
aware
that
both
of
them
not
only
have
many
interests
but
many
facets
to
their
personalities.
Cobalt
blue,
being
the
lover
of
yellow
green,
often
begs
to
have
that
color
placed
next
to
it,
blending
and
intermingling
with
it
in
a
display
of
gentle
intercourse.
Usually
I
give
into
this
plea,
and
now
I
give
into
it
again,
this
being
the
first
day
of
spring
after
all.
Wetting
the
paper
once
more,
I
lay
the
yellow
green
all
around
one
side
of
the
cobalt
blue,
and
immediately
these
two
begin
to
occupy
themselves
conceiving
a
new
color,
while
magenta
watches
from
a
distance
with
considerable
interest.
What
can
I
do
now
to
stir
things
up
between
these
three?
Magenta,
who
is
a
bit
of
a
rogue,
and
having
perhaps
an
excess
of
joie
de
vivre,
is
perfectly
capable
of
setting
off
a
few
fireworks.
How
do
I
want
them
to
relate
to
each
other
and
the
new
colors
that
are
about
to
enter
their
lives?
I
am
exploring
Africa,
conducting
a
battle
and
a
symphony
at
the
same
time,
making
love
and
writing
a
play.
The
participants
are
all
there
on
my
palette,
waiting
to
be
introduced
and
act
out
their
parts
in
the
unfolding
drama,
the
play
that
writes
itself
as
it
progresses,
the
symphony
that
composes
itself
as
it
goes
along,
performed
in
an
aviary
teeming
with
birds
of
all
colors.
There
is
always
the
question
of
action,
since
something
has
to
be
done,
and
with
movement
come
line
and
shape.
The
terms
of
progress
must
be
reckoned
in
the
light
of
inertia,
at
least
to
the
degree
of
providing,
however
vague,
a
motive
for
action.
Feeling
ebullient
this
day,
I
throw
all
caution
to
the
wind,
dip
into
the
flame
red
and
paint
an
irregular
circle
just
barely
touching
the
other
colors.
No
sooner
have
I
done
this
than
I
have
a
sudden
impulse
to
put
some
cerulean
in
the
area
where
the
red
circle
touches
the
yellow-green.
This
I
do.
And
now
I
am
in
the
thick
of
it,
the
exploration,
the
battle,
the
love-making,
the
go
game,
the
poetry,
the
music.
Everything.
And
now
that
I
have
created
a
few
of
the
building
blocks
of
my
new
universe,
I
begin
to
wonder
what
kind
of
life
I
want
to
inhabit
it.
There
should
be
flowers
and
trees
of
some
sort,
and
a
few
representatives
from
the
world
of
fauna.
First
though,
I
need
to
put
in
some
green
to
get
life
started,
a
good
warm
sap
green
bursting
with
the
urge
to
bloom
and
flourish.
So
I
apply
a
fair
amount
of
this
color
near
the
magenta
and
the
cobalt
blue,
missing
for
now
the
red
circle,
which
is
an
abstract
form
of
life
and,
as
such,
needs
to
keep
its
distance
for
the
color
of
physical
life
until
other
things
are
resolved.
What
creatures?
I
have
always
been
partial
to
the
gerenuk,
and
I
see
no
reason
why
I
should
not
use
it
now.
But
I
had
also
been
envisioning
a
turtle
whose
shell
is
a
maze
of
brilliant
colors.
Then
it
strikes
me
that
the
cobalt
blue
would
serve
well
as
the
turtle's
head,
and
that
if
I
tilt
the
turtle
slightly
I
can
have
him
walking
on
the
inside
of
the
red
circle.
Things
are
happening
now.
The
action
is
in
full
swing.
I
begin
to
see
birds
and
cats
and
beetles
and
bats.
What
about
the
Sunken
Cathedral
of
Ys?
It
should
be
included
somehow.
Yes,
there
must
be
water
and
waves.
And
I
must
not
forget
to
leave
space
for
an
orange
sun.
And
there
ought
to
be
a
palm
tree,
a
perfect
palm
tree.
And
a
blue
pyramid.
And
a
sleeping
lion.
How
to
get
all
these
things,
plus
whatever
else
comes
to
mind,
into
the
same
painting
without
it
looking
like
the
contents
of
a
child's
toy
box?
I
sit
back
for
a
while
and
gaze
at
what
I
have
done
so
far.
What
about
the
orchestration
of
color?
Always
that
to
consider
first.
And
last.
That
will
work
itself
out,
I
tell
myself.
What
I
need
now
is
for
the
painting
to
tell
me
how
to
accommodate
the
gerenuk,
who
should
be
orange
or
violet,
emerging
from
green.
If
I
place
the
gerenuk
above
the
turtle
so
that
the
tips
of
the
horns
are
just
touching
the
red
circle
this
will
have
a
good
effect.
Then
it
hits
me
like
a
bolt!
There
must
be
something
with
wings,
not
necessarily
a
bird.
I
don't
want
to
give
my
gerenuk
or
turtle
wings.
Will
I
have
to
add
an
angel
or
naiad
or
a
sprite?
I
decide
on
a
winged
sprite.
She
will
be
holding
a
silent
dialog
with
the
gerenuk.
I'll
have
them
staring
into
eachother's
eyes.
Now
I
get
back
to
work,
slowly
revealing
the
character
of
my
new
world.
As
I
paint
a
flood
of
images
begins
to
sweep
over
me.
There
should
be
a
tower
somewhere.
And
violet
snake.
How
am
I
going
to
put
all
these
things
in
without
making
a
mess?
Style,
of
course,
is
the
answer.
Picasso
filled
his
panting
with
all
sorts
of
things
he
liked,
and
they
all
got
along
with
eachother
because
they
were
enchanted
with
the
style
of
their
creator.
I
want
to
believe
that
my
own
style
is
powerful
enough
to
bring
all
these
things
together
in
a
harmonious
and
meaningful
way.
This
is
not
easy,
but
I
have
one
of
the
keys:
binding
the
painting
together
with
the
music
and
the
poetry
of
color.
I
could
put
a
platypus
right
in
the
middle
of
the
paper
and
it
would
work
if
the
color
orchestration
made
it
work.
Or
so
I
think
optimistically
as
I
ponder
my
next
move.
The
color
wheel,
my
"pack
of
jokers",
is
spinning
around
faster
and
faster.
Wherever
it
stops,
that
is
the
color
I'll
use
next.
One
of
the
keys,
I
realize
to
making
this
painting
communicate
what
I
want
it
to,
the
feeling
that
accompanies
the
discovery
of
a
new
world,
is
the
inspired
application
of
green,
not
an
easy
color
to
use.
What
about
having
the
gerenuk
sticking
up
from
the
middle
of
a
heart-shaped
pair
of
green
leaves
growing
from
the
top
of
the
turtle
shell?
Would
that
be
too
designlike,
too
schematic?
Not
if
I
do
it
right.
But
first
there
are
other
things.
The
golden
temples
of
Asia.
The
blue
Patagonian
pumpkin
fish.
Monuments
in
the
Valleys
of
the
Mountains
of
the
Moon.
All
the
rings
of
the
circus
are
in
full
operation
now.
Yet
at
this
instant
I
am
certain
that
I
am
being
who
I
really
am.
The
questions Who are you? and What
are
you
doing
on
this
planet? have been momentarily answered.
|
