The other day I was looking through an old sketchbook from the winter of ’96, when I was a naive art student spending the semester in NYC. I generally don’t read things that I’ve written in the past—journals never, and even old college papers creep me out—but on this occasion I was looking for a particular record of the moment I first laid eyes on a Richter painting.
So I started skimming, careful not to find myself too interesting and read complete pages. It was actually very similar to the way I watch scary movies through my finger slits, taking in way more information than I mean to. All I was hoping to find was a little sketch with an “Oh, painting … so much doubt … so much belief” scribbled next to it, or even a simple “WHAT THE @!#$!?” or “HOLY MOSES! WHO’S THIS RICHTER GUY?!” would have been great … but nada. zip. zam. zoom.
On the flip side, I did write a lot of pretty crazy things, which left me with two important thoughts …
1. My god, have I changed at all since I was 20?!
2. I really miss drawing.