Matisse

you have no idea what you're doing. yet you persist. without consideration, even for yourself. how do you do it? people watch and ask themselves, how does he do it? I hear them all. and they turn and ask me, how does he do it? and I just turn, and keep watching. it's like you're almost there; it's like what you do is almost there too, offering traces of something gaseous in solid answer. traces that fail a color as it holds on a line; traces of line inventing themselves, issue color into boxes, boxes that wish for nothing other than release. I have a memory of tall sheer blue that has risen as height; I have memory of a view that's making itself, and out of a love for this, it keeps looking on in green; I have a memory of all those people asking here, their voices risen to right up there. how do you do it?