Works On Paper

In response to R. Barthes "Cy Twombly: Works on Paper"

Untitled #1

The line - any line on a page - denies the existence of the body itself. It is simply the image of the body's movements towards the line of desire, of movement, of placing the variety of wordlessness on paper.

To imitate a line - the attempt at recreating it - will lead the line to a hallow place where there is nothing.

The difference in the producing versus the product lies in the line between. There are enough variances of lines, the ones that linger and those that shoot away off the page, that it is pointless to ever try to reproduce them, once struck, or even to speak words about them, being that words are simply lines themselves, and nobody likes someone who talks about themselves all the time.

Untitled #2 (Trains)

How does one draw a line that isn't stupid? How does one draw a line that isn't in conflict with the canvas of the solid white page? It is tempting to implicate the solid streak of all color across the virginal clean as a violence, a rape, a demand to express that which has no words for expression. Those of us who create - i.e. all of us - fight with white like it was an assumed morality, something we must transgress. Being a creator is placing oneself in rejection of the color white, or at least a transfusion of meaning into it away from the notion of blank.

This is the stupidity of white: there is absolutely nothing there, so we scurry to fill it with whatever we have laying around. We hustles ourselves towards something that just doesn't exist, the fiction of our own designing, building a train on tracks that inevitability will only take us to the place we are trying to escape from: ourselves, or the very idea of blank.

____________________________________________________