LETTER

ABOUT your new work—and when is it “finished”—oh-oh—that is the real and only question. Of course you are absurdly right—the work says “let me be, I’m only a painting or a book—let me live a little.” ALONE—WITHOUT YOU. But is it that I think I am through (I may be only exhausted) and go to bed and 4 A.M.(when you awake) cannot sleep—clothes back on—looking at the picture—scrape it out—take big house-painters brushes, smush it all up and feel relief. Start again—what a relief to face nothing—recently in this state, some other kind (I wish I knew) of seeing takes place—the ravaging hunger to see something I haven’t seen before takes over. It must be appeased. Ross, if age has given me something, it may be, (I think) a small electronic time box—built in—won’t allow me to rest, until something—anything—a scribble is put down before I think it out first. Oh, how I hate composing! Ross, I don’t think I am a painter—at all! I am, I think, a medieval alchemist in a frenzy.

Jesus, this is turning into something fancy-shmansy. I don’t mean it to be. We are just comparing notes, aren’t we? I love your statement (“it sits there, ready to be overhauled: smug bastard”). Yes, that is the way it is. You are not confusing to me, may I say—I know, “bupkes” as well as the “internal vertigo.” I’m not boasting. It’s been my life.

Ross—I don’t quite agree with you that it is a “superior sort of gall—to make a work—to assume the connection between maker and made—to make such elaborate fortifications against Time.” (Your words.) My bone to pick is a tiny one—maybe a cockroach. But here it is—at least with me—(and I take the liberty of thinking, with you, too). It is not gall—no, it is shame—shame to be an artist—shame to create—Embarrassment—a huge dose—to be an artist—assume the role of a maker—suddenly I go into reverse, and feel as you say—maybe it is gall. You—we—deal with forces—no matter what form they take—we release them—they are governed by such generous laws—of such magnitude that either we do not comprehend them or it makes us have daily breakdowns trying to. Our damn and unavoidable minds, habits of analyzing—God says, “don’t fuck around with my stuff boys—You just love, adore, cherish what I have made.” But, the next hour, in fact, right now, my mind, my desires have changed. I WANT TO MAKE. Somehow (I remember once remarking to you) I think I’ve always felt that creating is an evil thing—Satan’s work—Maybe therein lies the shame. What?

May your hospital check-up turn out fine—I fervently—hope—let me know?

What is a vacation? I should know? All I know is, you take all the sludge, as you call it, with you. For myself—I know Florida caused my breakdown. So don’t ask me. Ask Kafka—who says (as you well know) “art, for the artist, is suffering, only to be released for further suffering.” This is not gloomy—better to know the facts of life. No? My mind is going in circles right now—I better stop—

Do take a short vacation—hear? Then come up here—where there are no truths—only blind stabs, and it will be joyfull—

(In the margin was this:) I am 2/3 asleep. It is 4 A.M. Overlook this crappy letter.

[1978]