I’ve been painting for quite a long time and have made quite a few paintings, but there are many more paintings that were never made. Some exist only as quickly scribbled notes, some as drawings or ideas in a sketchbook, and some as unfinished canvasses, but most exist only as hazy memories or passing thoughts. They exist just as do all of those people we never knew or relationships we never had. There are those we knew only through a momentary glance, a recognition – someone with whom there appeared to be a connection – but it never happened – there was only the brief meeting of our eyes and perhaps a smile. There are those we knew in what now seems a former life, but time has passed, and our memories may only be those of our own construction.
This is not a statement of regret, but only an observation. The paths we followed were ordained – the paths we did not take were ordained as well. Like an experience of conceptual or postmodern art, the description may carry more import than any attempt at expression. If there were to be an exhibition of those paintings that I never made, what might it include? There would be the landscapes – too pretty to capture the complexities of personal struggles. The abstractions – combinations of shapes and colors either subtle or striking and sublime but with an insufficient anchor to our current existence. The portraits – recognized or generic faces – perhaps only illuminated by the light of a cell phone but simply ‘one-liners’ with nothing further to say. These paintings were never made since they failed to be sufficiently compelling or significant; or because an adequate form could not be found for those thoughts and experiences which were too personal or too transcendent; or, more practically, because the vision faded too quickly, overcome by more immediate needs or obligations.
In many ways, the work in this fictional exhibit holds more value than those physical objects that I did make, for in making physical work, there’s always limitation and reduction. The physical products can only point to a thought or experience. The unmade work may hold aspects of my delusion, but it is replete.