I like the ordinary, the child, the unloved, the horse, the book, the repetitive, the industrial, the agricultural, the textural, the spiky, the silly, the incongruous, the sewing machine, the simple, the audacious, the transient, the ephemeral and the permanent.
I can be so definite, precise. I barely know where to turn when I have no purpose. I am doing a thing which has no end, no purpose. Is this torture or is it happiness? I can do a thing which elicits the highest praise in the tiny circle in which it is encountered. But the thing has no life. I am encumbered, for the thing becomes my responsibility. The thing is a torture because it has not lived and I must feel I must make it live. But I cannot love the thing as I must make new things. I must put the thing aside and plan a new thing. But how does the new thing find me without an outside frame? I must have a frame to make a thing that fits. Big, colourful, philisophicaly rigourous, simple, everyday? A frame that fits. But what frame fits a things with no purpose? How do I do this thing?