I flooded a drawing last night. The panel is my first welding project - it deformed and

puckered up in the center. I was frustrated that my perfect square would do this, but also determined to create a watertight seal by welding alone. I'm interested in material

limits. The brink teaches.

When I finished I filled the panel with vinegar and water, which evaporated and

oxidized, and then pure copper I extracted through simple chemistry from copper

sulphate powder. And had extra. So dumped that in there too… why? To what end?

into what exactly A rorschach? I’m a painter by trade and since my father exited

without warning last year I haven't been able to fix an image either by will or by choice. It seems I’m ruled by accidents but also dependent on them. I oscillate between limitation and liberation.

In one recent oscillation I began to draw into the panel’s rusted out interior, trying to

choose. I regretted this almost immediately. Who am I to assume linear geometry is the answer? Who am I to impose structure, illustration or diagram onto a material image that already knows what it is, what it can be, what it wants? These gestures, choices, possible geometries of time, abstractions of nodal travel… trite bullshit. Means nothing, points to nothing, relates to nothing, emanates from nowhere in particular, and feels like some self-conscious attempt to appear math-y.

So I flooded it. The drawing’s still there, immersed, finally interacting. Like perhaps I

desire to be, or obscured in a way which disguises all my trite attempts at cleverness.

Interesting that this feels more real to me than my mark, or less like a choice than making the containers in the fist place. Seems like there’s always degrees of

the real, a ratcheted slope toward some additional depth or elevation.