On a chilly morning, I stand off to the side, color pastels and sketchbook in hand; people are huddled, waiting and watching; cabbies sip coffee; black suits rush by. The bus pulls up, the old guy stands, cane leading, he moves in line to board. The bus, the line, the man and the cane create the moment, and my frantic drawing begins.
In the studio with fifty colors and just as many brushes, music blaring, I attack the painting. All at once, creation in a moment, cover all the canvas, mark against mark, movement and counter movement, yellow always yellow, gobs of white, cans of turpentine, piles of rags. Paint over paint, colors upon colors makes new colors, sensuous and gestural. What are the essentials, what is real, what is important, what is true?