Last Friday I went back to MOMA and spent time in the Abstract Expressionist wing - lovely to be back with Jasper Johns, Robert Motherwell, Richard Diebenkorn, Stella, and on through some Pop artists. Warhol is over rated.
What amazed me is in my art lapse how many great 1950s painters I admired died. Their paintings remain - hung and sublime, but the themselves are ghosts. Maybe they will come to me in my dreams - for example, the Ghost of Art Past.
I seek inspiration. It is everywhere but some places more constant and glowing like the first ember. Think of the caveman who discovered he could create fire and you will understand the awe I sometimes feel.
I need to express it more clearly, but the way I see sometimes - I see through phot lenses and I fall in love with visual perfection. My perfection, my interpretation, but something close and secret and somehow divine. Crush city, not surf city. Wipe out, nonetheless.
I once had the biggest crush and then one day it just went away - I was so relieved. My mind is funny that way. Nothing caused it either. Sort of like my mind got washed while I was asleep.
Here is to inspiration and being awoken cold by a perfect ghost. Past and present perfect.