ROSS—PART I
THE RANT:
Sat—Sept 17 ’78
Ross—
after a new battle picture—a whole series—I was going to wire (MAILOGRAM) you “The Bomb exploded! I am Totally, Totally, now in that other—other place. Will write soon to explain.”
But I was afraid the Western Union would get the F.B.I. after me.
Studio now looks like a battlefield since you’ve been here—the wreckage—the spoils—the dozens of pictures—images—painted out! Literally—now I am showing myself—TO myself—making concrete as I can, VISIBLE AS I CAN— much as my gut can stand—as touchable—grabable—solid—but it always turns out so precarious—Jesus—I could (right now) grab an ax and WITH GLEE chop up people into pieces—make those limbs into chunks—that I can eat! I’m going crazy—on the edge of madness I think. I feel savage and absurd—no—not absurd at all—Painting—creating—is BOTH really impossible-possible—No more dreaming away—No more “moments of innocence”—Hell—what I’m getting are hours—days—months—of knowing as I go up cliffs—rocks—up and down—like a giant and armed bug—hard armored too! No one knows it—but right here—in the woods—I feel like Lenin or Trotsky—in Zurich, plotting the revolution!—
I say battle-grounds—Yes, the battle—conflict—now is showing—it’s all in the open now—we are in the open now—we are in the arena—exposed—
What is it? That is showing? I’ll tell you—You saw hints of it—but now it is taking shape—structure (LIKE A PYRAMID) Pots of paint shown—with dozens of brushes as weapons stuck in real—real—conflict—fighting off—with weapons—shields—not garbage cans—fighting the abstract part of art—the not visible—Oh so that’s it—the conflict between the real against the unreal. My God! The things that do not go together—and won’t—must—and yet they do! I was not prepared yet—until now!
Imagine PAINT POTS—FIGHTING GARBAGE LIDS! INTO A STATE OF METAMORPHOSIS—TRANSFORMED INTO THE AS YET UNNAMED.
P. S. YOU SPEAK OF HAMLET STABBING THE CURTAIN!
PPS. POTS OF PAINT WITH RED PAINT DRIPPING DOWN INTO POOLS OF BLOOD. BUT IT’S ONLY RED PAINT—LIKE MOVIE CATSUP—SO WHEN ALL’S SAID AND DONE—IT’S ONLY A MOVIE—ONLY A PAINTING!
ROSS—PART II
THE LETTER
. . .So, yesterday, Saturday—after some sleep, I was in the middle of writing these telegramese notes to you that are in the LETTER, when Clark Coolidge came down to see what I was up to—we talked non-stop, of course till 4 A.M. I must have seemed like a raving mad hermit—I had just exploded my bomb and was still in wild eyed thrall. Now—Sunday, I’ve calmed down a bit—Clark has just left—I’m about to clean up the battlefield here—pick up the mess of dead bodies—but want to get this off to you, before we get ready for Chicago and other duties. I’m worried & nervous about stopping work—now that I’ve unlocked so many doors—there is so much territory to explore—Oh-oh-oh—can I stand it? Shall I take drugs? Don’t know—You say “serious art”—What? I am an alchemist out of the middle ages—I am a necromancer, a laboratory scientist finding ever-new & infinite potential in that world that was always taken for granted—but now it’s all open—unknown—We do not know what we thought we knew—Yes!
Well, I better stop this rant!!! I LOVE YOU BOTH—Musa’s scarf arrived—your gift—She loves it—will wear it to Chicago and tells me to tell you—thanks, thanks, and much, much love—tell Ellen she can have my bones when I leave this planet to go in my solar boat—IN THE PYRAMID’s TOMB—
Something uncanny—listen—The two books I keep in the bathroom (of the studio guest room where you stay) for on-the-throne-reading are small and have been there for years—One is on Egyptian Mummies and the Art of Embalming—and the other is on Haloes—the use and variety of the Halo in Renaissance Art. What? HUH?. . .