Dear Salvador,
I’ve delved into the subject of conceptual art. Well, “delved” is definitely too strong a word (what is there to delve into, really??). You know, art education in isolation has the benefit of leaving a person alone with their own expectations, cut off from all the babble of today’s world. Someone tries to sell me on the idea that it’s the concept that matters, not the execution. That the execution doesn’t even have to exist—you could just hang a piece of paper on the wall saying “a painting was meant to be here” and call it a masterpiece. Excuse me, but I haven’t heard such a bullshit in a very long time.
I continued my reflections on the ficus. I don’t know, perhaps I’ll touch it again. It had to do without the little bird for now; maybe in the next iteration…
Hard times have come for me: the daffodils have arrived in the shops. And so, I bought a sprig of baby’s breath with a painting in mind that’s been haunting me for a month, along with a bouquet of daffodils and carnations. I’m driving as if on caffeine, without the coffee. I go to bed around midnight, and before I fall asleep, I watch the stains. I fantasize about placing powder pink next to a bluish-green. Brrr. This spring is going to be the end of me, I can feel it.
PS. And yes, I finally know what those mustaches of yours are for… You are impossible.