Tina and I sorted through a box of slides this morning.
Reassuring to have made all the works which all those little shining
pieces of film framed with white cardboard represent.
An entirely different thing than the work itself, of course.
Not resonating in the way a painting does. Not evoking the months of
seesawing between "this is good" and "this is shit". Not conjuring up
the things that were painted over; Not reminding me of things that
happened while I was painting the way the work itself does.
Like the multiple views of Emerald Bay in an old viewfinder that I keep
on my bedroom bookshelf, they are nothing like the real thing but
nevertheless pleasing.