Kit Kelen #40 - a series of paintings that no longer exist (notes towards a scratch/flow minifesto)

a series of paintings that no longer exist

(notes towards a scratch/flow minifesto)

in the escape from words

(imagine it from screen or page)

in that quick getaway (where was I?)

if you've gone too far, keep going

(I'm not going to call that a rule

but only because there aren't any)

if you've gone too far

yes you can always prime again

(this in itself means many things)

but better to unsettle

how?

push poke pour

splash on a bit of colour love

no need to dig at the page

but why not?

some things go right through

there's daylight

or light of a next world at least

more on the method of escape?

deform a word into a picture

bury it in paint

in paroxysms of gift and glee

a mechanism for know-not-what

and know that none of this was named

till now, but now

for sake of argument, that's all

silence is the better part

or radio and wind seep in

things return

to animate the work as a whole

let the scratched board bloom to colour

not even the soul need tangle existence

this is the interruption of thought

the flit

you cannot picture

past what you can see

why picture a thing at all?

try not!

o wind that has my jeans for dry

(you see beyond the worlds a world)

where's the mud

and where's the magic?

is colour welling up from under?

can you expect it all?

need to go in more

need to come out

torture the paper

to find my way

scratch and eke

everything yet to be invented

comes as paint from the primal chaos

offer yourself as an irritatation

an ointment fly flaps yet awhile

and somewhere

simple pirouhette

a sudden sadness might take you

to camera

catch at everything connected

and that was the moment done

it's only ever just bits

that'd be good

and only if you'd let them be

but one goes ever on

arm is implement

eyes are lasers

scratch and flow

and there is colouring in

equally following a line

isn't every one of them

a boy with a bow and arrow somewhere?

some have tumbled into their paintings

and many won't be coming back

grounds fore and aft

and then dismissal

must not fall into the clutches

yet must

make a map of one inward's world

call it an aerial view

make works on whatever's available

with whatever comes to hand

there's a sudden shine of whiskers in it

all a little lost let's say

perhaps we're all

little ratty at the last

something unworthy in what I do

but I'm yet to work it out