May 9, 1999: Stop comparing, it leads to an artist’s death
What’s this need to bring lines together? I stare into the deep soul of chance—to carry shades of multitudes of color, to listen as my nib scratches into the canvas. Why do I have to draw like a child? To see buildings as statues scraping the sky—to visualize brush strokes through a painters eye, to listen as my nib scratches into the canvas.
“I am not an artist!” I scream out. “I don’t want to paint! I cannot sleep at night, my imagination won’t turn off.” All this is said while my nib scratches into the canvas. I saw two galleries upon a walk I took. Reality became fantasy, a new child was born—lines touched, shades added character—my nib continued to scratch into the canvas. What’s this need to bring such harm? To stare at myself in the wall-to-wall mirror, “I am not an artist…” I now whisper, only to hear my nib scratch into the canvas.