This is it. The one real artwork I ever produced. Its inspiration is obvious, and the result doesn't hide hours spent poring over reprints of One Number 31. Irrelevant. The canvas is far more vibrant than its monotone photo gives away. Better. It represents the absolute chaos of each stroke, the fervour of splashing and circling and layering and laughing.
It represents fundamental, primeval, metaphysical balance. It sucks pigment through the thick wood and paper and leaves only a framework of raw, greyscale emotion. I'm not sentimental. I'm not clingy. I don't draw significance from hollow words or cliched fantasies. Still. Every time I flip the painting 90° to the left, I see the outline of one word. Unintentional, but as compositionally relevant as the frame itself. One stretch of characters revealing the dark canvas underneath countless layers of colorful strokes.