Ruins

I’m thinking about the idea of ruins: Of ruining my my work, my paintings, sanding them off back down to gesso. Of ruining expensive art supplies, with my carelessness. The ruin that can come from impulsivity. The fragility of political relationships, who both sides believe are ruining it for the rest of us. Of burying memory, the burying our ancestors, the burying of culture. Of burying entire civilizations and burying their knowledge.

I think that in order to progress forward, it’s important to be able to see the remains of the process to remind you how far you have come, informed by everything that came before.

I’m thinking about this as I’m constantly covering over my work with different layers, and now ripping off to introduce happenstance. I don’t know where this goes…