The Shit Show
I am an anal personality. All artists are,
all the good ones. Paint is like excrement that we compulsively
handle, and its filth goes hand in hand with the necessity
of exactness in tecnique that is evedent in great painters
work. Painters that throw paint at canvas are no better than
monkeys that fling their shit at tourists. The painter is
the monkey alchemist, taking shit and turning it into gold.
Here's a picture for you: Imagine a painter nude in a museum, with a paintbrush sticking in his ass as he uses another to adorn the Mona Lisa with Dali's infamouse mustache. So many sacred truths are evident in this synopsis that the average monkey would be incapable of percieving.
If the painter must paint, and that need is compulsive in nature, it is because he could no sooner turn off the faucit of his creativity than cork his ass. The pictures of the imagination and their necessary completion are a biological secretion. And to repaint eyes 5 times to make them correct is anal, and handling oil paint in one's hand is anal.
This is the most noble example of man's foibles and hang ups being the root of everything great. A fulfilled man could do nothing. Contentment is the enemy. If I could have all the food, sex, money, and love that I wanted I wouldn't have anything to do. If I purposefully deny myself certain indulgences that is my choice and here is my prupose. I hope that the next word will be "discipline". True that "justice" must come first, or else we will have discipline without justification (popular christianity), but I'm sick of seeing filthy fat sobs in rag torn clothes that mistake their undisciplined "instant gratification" brand of indulgence for living in opulence.
The painter is the monkey alchemist that turns shit into gold.
