Joash Woodrow

Aug 31 2012

Beginnings are awkward. For anyone but a fawn. Even its first slippery steps are graceful. We are not natural in this way, but of our own make, and it is necessary to come to terms. It seems inappropriate to relate remembrances of angelic visitation. By this encounter I was given constant wakefulness for the course of my life.

The early days were harassed with introductions. It seemed that I was expected to embark on some regular course. But in the stacks of paintings and sketches and sculptures climbing the walls my visitors apprehended only the collection of a hoarder. And then as time went by they became frightened by my eyes which through sleeplessness took on an appearance of accelerated age. In each tiny part of each tiny crease I saw with satisfaction the mark of a part of what I had made. But I have not expected the appreciation of detail; what I needed was to be left alone.

Unfortunately in my haste to create I have stacked paintings on top of each other while still wet so that many of their surfaces became attached, but I will leave this problem to the conservators. It has seemed good to me to have been favoured with the ability to express through my art the access I have had to the eternity of inspiration. Through the years I have not wavered in my mission of producing a work for every human being on earth. By my reckoning I have twelve days and nights remaining in which to complete my labour, after which time I will die, and pass from all awareness into pure dissolve.

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