I stopped writing after my last New York Show because I, like most of you, were sick to hell of my babbling. I'd wake up in the middle of the night to audible dreams, of crowds of people screaming at me to shut-up. I had also gotten so much grief from my book [sic], much of it richly deserved, that I could no longer enjoy doing it. My yellow legal pad became the devil incarnate for me. Let's put it this way, there's a very good reason most writers use fiction to express themselves. Anyway, in the middle of making a word painting called "Nothing New in Thirty-three years" I decided to hang it up.
Cast from the literary garden of Eden, I've terminated my multi-layered nakedness and donned a fig leaf. Yes, I've been painting pictures. In my view it's all the same thing, but who really gives a damn what I think? I've exhibited this new work in solo shows in Los Angeles, Athens, Berlin, and Milan. Inevitably, at each opening somebody would come up to me and say "hey, nice paintings but I thought you were that writer guy who masturbates on video and hangs out with chimpanzees."
In brief, and with my briefs now on for that matter, I'm painting pictures that give small glimpses into my mind. Now if that just happens to be a space chimp on Mars, then so be it. Basically, I just think things up and then paint them. To me pictures are far more open to interpretation than words, therefore, I was hoping you could figure out what my new work means because I sure don't know what the hell I'm doing.
My show opens on April 25, and runs through May 31. Besides oil paintings, it will include sculpture and a special surprise, it's a surprise because I don't know what it'll be yet. I hope you like my new art work because if you don't, I'm fucked.
PS. I love you very very much.