An empty canvas is full of potential.
Each stroke I paint shrinks the possibilities, though.
By the time I finish, I've stripped away every other painting except the one I end up with.
That's the one I hang on the wall.
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Here's one from my unpublished Film Catalog Manuscript:
Mystère Picasso
(1955) 75 Min. Henri-Georges Clouzot reveals Picasso's artistic process of painting over and over and over and over again. What is Picasso trying to hide?
I begin with a line
flung
askew,
sensual,
drawing that line
where it draws me
to risk
making sense any
more than being gored
by a bull
*
I slash without a care,
knocked
off time,
unconscious,
withdrawing that stare
where it singes me
to see,
smashing sense no
more than being touched
by women
*
I collage around a nude
laid
out cold,
flabby,
spilling off the couch
where touch reminds me
to wallpaper
blue mosaics even
while being screwed
from view
*
I deface my own mask,
blown
awry,
rigid,
savaging the mind
where it saws me
in half,
burrowing earth even
when being strung
up wrong
*
I stoop beside the canvas,
shocked
anew,
marveling,
teasing that pulse
where it erases me
in dreams,
smothering faults over
more by being born
again
*
I winnow out the excess
dredged
unhinged,
ruthless,
ruffling the predictable
where it mimes me
to mimic,
softening the punch more
often than being wounded
by words
*
I upend the consensus,
gleeful,
off kilter,
mischievous,
staring down the stare
where it dares me
to dare,
soiling oils more
so than being limited
by color
*
I testify to a jones,
rad,
flipped out,
ahistorical,
counterculturing the bourgeoisie
where they nurture me
to rave,
brawling the flesh no
more than being paranoid
in jail
*
I rework the carcass,
decomposed,
wacko,
incestuous,
breeding the lice
where they breed me
to thrive,
cubing the form no
more than being transformed
to form
*
I level in the stars,
cunning,
witless,
curious,
following the line
where it aligns me
to see,
messing up more
often than being awakened
to awe
Dr. Mike
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