It's Not Supposed

That's the title of a new drawing. It's also the content, of sorts, in that the words are scratched into the wet surface of an overworked, smudge of colors. What can I say? Very little, as anti a hole, writing the story of the walls in a dry well or singing the song of a whirlpool, the aesthetic of bathos. I blame Beauty.

I have a list of such titles, long enough to needlepoint a sampler of self-reference. Out of that context, they mean nothing. The remains of remains of remains. The place it fell apart. Confessions of a low thread count. Seldom the twain shall meet more traces than traits. Denials in formalism. Reworked into little uncommitted touches. The titles are enough, but not of something. Parts are missing. And so, as hard to explain, too easy.

Thankfully, not everything.

I am tempted to post a photo. A revisit, meaning an image from a few years back, or a photograph made yesterday because of an old idea not yet fully explored. It occurs to me that both will bring some clarity to the above.

I now see the world is imperfect

 Primaries