On sleeping in proximity to art in the room.
In the valley of Los Angeles I slept in a cot by the Bob Hope Airport in a vast studio without a shower. It was lit like a kunsthalle or not at all. The art of my hosts was my friend in the night. In the company of their inanimate forms I saw the welcome angular explorations and mid-phase prototyping in color and surface and shadow. Dreaming on the cot, I caught glimpses of four-inch bar steel diving from swimming pool starting blocks into concrete water. These little dreams of industrial materials used for the purpose of superfluous beauty dart across the screen of my sleeping mind. On this accumulated moment rests a pile of blanks, sanded and ready to be marked upon. They float in large cardboard box forests on cushions of scrap fabric, torn from shirts and pants and packaging scraps. Gessoed panels rest in the boxes and are shaped from off-cuts of constructed Amish pole barns. Trailing statements dangle from the branches of trees which are not even there. On the ground are birds sitting like anvils.
It is easy to get lost when you are by yourself all the time. In fact, you are lost all the time if you don't have friends. And being lost to some extent or another is common to the beautiful. Uncertainty is all right, the kids are all right, and so are the old shufflers taking all day to do the shopping, not because they need stuff, but because they need contact with the world before finally settling into that black lacquered maple box or before being turned into a pile of ash. If there is a point, it is best if it is nearly missed. It is the tiny and important divide between truth and less falseness which closely describes the divide between the meaning of art and the joy of experiencing art.