A sketch is such an immaculate conception. Before colour: form. A curving mass of lines. Possibility. Perfection.
The curse of being an idea-generating machine is that no creation will ever be as perfect as its conception
I know that once I take the mathematical entity off the page it starts to flaw, to differentiate. Even now, it is a pure white ruse. It is the idea of a thing.
The debate – will you breathe life into that symbol and make it concrete? The source of all delay.
A sketch is like an object of the mind, perhaps impenetrable to others but immediately provocative to the artist. An artist looks at their own idea and sees the possibilities in flux. It is a great excitement.
An object of the mind is non-communicative. In must be translated. It must be narrowed into a coherent statement and transmitted. It must be painted with actual colours and not all the colours at once.
Because the white of the page contains the full spectrum of outcomes for that take. The terror is that none of the options are the full entity. You can never fully communicate what the mind sees in shapes. You can never fully say what you mean to say. You are compelled to try a different angle on another day. But by then you are changed.
And that is fine. And I accept that.
It is better to say something than to live and die in the sheer white of possibility.
And anyway sometimes I am talking to myself.