Gypsy Red, Daffodil, Aviary Blue—the smell of latex and whiskey, painters plastic crinkling, a pop of pressure from lids opening—the old man preferred off white, swore he was dying said there was nothing eccentric or colorful about it.
You know Monet sat inside a rowboat for days unable to paint. Blue, pink, purple, yellow—just pick a color and get going. I guess he was holding out for that right lighting. Rain, snow, sleet, shine... shit, I’m always working.
Fading Rose, Torchlight, Underseas—to cut in with the hands that God graced as steady, the tip of a brush holding up your ceiling.
Van Gogh was a little bat-shit crazy, couldn’t give away a painting. You know that famous swirl he was always doing was more than likely the syphilis eating away at his brain. Probably why he cut off his ear and gave it to a hooker... I don’t know why everyone is so fascinated with that story. I find nothing poetic about the fact, only being bat-shit crazy.
Bella Pink, Costal Plain, Capri— rollers running, spinning, drop cloths netting spatter, the whole of a canvas filling—said he ran away from home at the age of fifteen, needed money—no texture back then, it wasn’t easy, just a flat brush and oil for everything.
Chagall was a prick but I pray to the Mother Mary that heaven is one hell of a bloodbath of colors from this painting. You know in “Jacobs Dream” I counted 9 angels, 5 birds, and a dreaming Jacob. He made it look as if they were all swimming. What it really means, I could give a shit—
just find it interesting.
—Andrew Schilling, Marshfield, WI