Imagine a story where he plans his wardrobe each year. He took an hour to plan out what he’d wear each day of the month and clothes in his closet were then categorized accordingly. The rest of the year he didn’t have to think about what to wear each day.
It was a good way for him to tell time and to remember which day an event took place based on what he was wearing. As time went on his mind became trained to notice this detail each day.
Eventually he became obsessed with the question of “which clothes will I be wearing the day I die.” He worried that they would not be appropriate.
Inspiration hit. Peeking out his motel window, downstairs, three pigeons flew diagonal past up against sharp blue backlight and at the same time in his field of vision 3 people seemed choreographed momentarily. The motel courtyard, trees shook, a woman with biker shorts too tight picked up a quarter and red jersey gold bracelet guy’s cigarette blew out. It was a flash.
So he opened the curtains.
A colorblind artist does not exist. I gotta’ finish this story some time.
The art event was over. A day after the public left and he was still in room 122. Anonymous here if you want to be so he was painting by the microwave and journaling by the window. Important things. The balance between red and blue and varied chapter lengths. He carried steady thought on how personal he might get in writing. He wondered how personal painting. Orange shadows, for instance, that’s personal.
And he told me that there’s a need for truth. Truth as we all see it. That kind of truth needs to exist he’s telling me, this man, this friend of mine the other night. We looked at his art and he told me that people need to believe that there is something beyond us. Quickly we got to that point in the conversation. It’s nice having old friends.
The stars over this desert at night cast unruly romantic ideas about her. It’s like he’s dreaming asleep but he walks the night to sagebrush too thick to assail in his waking. Alone, this trailer affords time to paint and to think of what’s missing. Rehash what was misaligned. Trash it all along. Alone, without the proximity to it all his judgement desireful.
“The update of life surrounds minutes moments of the time, time. time.” He writes. “Innocent when you dream” he sings. Artist typecast like he’s on a mission. He’s inward and sitting in corners. Shut down to the outside.
“I’d be hoppin’ up and down like a boxer before the fight” crashing his gloves together making a pummphhk sound–pummphhk pummphhk. A small kid expresses himself passionately on the motel’s curb outside his window 122.
To title an artwork with long strung words is interesting and a certain choice. I wouldn’t blame anyone to dislike it. It concerns him how his artwork is talked about when he’s gone. This is why he listens when people talk about whatever they talk about.
The last art retreat I was on was more explicit. Everyone involved lived it the same way and with purpose to work. We stayed in an old hospital then. It had become an art center and art was central. This time it’s me on my own time on the shaded side of this motor lodge. It’s my own world I’m making and rough. I miss the pile of TVs outside. Also I’m not drinking so this brings something to it.
The detailed renderings come in spurts.
She showed me her posters screen printed and one featuring Hank Williams. Another one had Tammy Wynette. Who knows where she got ’em. She was hangin’ them in the motel office. They were done in a folk art style. Maybe by the Reverend Howard Finster, his style anyway.
The manager lives behind the office in her room that has a living room attached to the bedroom. She had a guy working on the courtyard the past week, watering the dirt. Planted some flowers. She takes pride in this motel. The owner, he’s a tight ass lawyer with car dealerships but she takes pride in this place.
A guy got shot here a couple weeks ago but that was just stupid I’m told.
Art takes us away. It’s the opiate for the masses but the masses found other opiates. It’s too bad. It is what it is. We think and think about what to do about it all to fix it all, but these folks are getting their fix elsewhere. Their drugs are putting them somewhere you’ll never be able to take them.
Art is for the stable in life. Art can bring to the stable instability and this is the excitement.
A woman stormed in to look at my art room and she had intelligent things to say. As she left me and my dude friend at the curb, she talked about liking art like this which makes her a hippy. She called herself a “hippy hooker” and walked away in tight shorts.
Blank stare, my friend turns to me “but how much? Wait… but how much?”