gordon comstock is thinking about his only published book of poems.

He thought with loathing of that sneaky little foolscap octavo.  those forty or fifty drab, dead little poems, each like a little abortion in its labelled jar.

i just think this little piece of hate filled writing is simply fantastic.  i wish i could speak with as much eloquence in my paintings about the experience of failure as he does in his prose.  the language is so visceral (i should mention that the rest of the book so far is equally as good, i just couldn’t be arsed writing more out) and unapologetic.  Its incredibly brave.

on an upshot from my uneloquent failures, i’ve had a certain amount of success with the glazing of a little work called downhill.  I glazed the majority of the surface with a delicate rose and then the slope with aureolin.  the slope was white with a tiny amount of viridian and once glazed it truly took off against the warm and cool reds of the rest of the pic.  so much so that i initially wiped off the aureolin in panic at its intensity.  until after some deliberation i reapplied an even more gentle glaze of aureolin, and now i look at it, i’m incredibly happy with the result.