Screaming at rainbows or pregnant women

I met J. on what was my headiest trip home for Christmas. We spent a few days in the entry way of a door left unguarded, and I came home to Montreal.
I started to pour myself into the mailbox across the street, and the one at the post office, hoping that some far-off mailman would, in turn, pour me into hers or retrieve her to come flopping and rubber chicken like out of my mailbox. We spoke on the phone, she didn't write back.
Months passed happily this way.
I went back to Calgary, to be terrified by the gaps that lay between her and the her I'd been writing to, and me and the me who'd been writing. We stopped speaking. I continued to write her and then stopped. I began writing here, in the beginning I was still writing on this blog to her.
I had never written so much, and the beauty of letters is that I can't even remember anything from them besides fragments. My house is filled with unsent letters, they surprise me stuffed in books and drawers.
To sit and write to someone, unanswered(or maybe even unsent), you build a them to write to. And you build a you to write from. To continue to write when no hope of answer exists, you build without any new information, in a vacuum. The she I wrote to was me, in her clothing. The me that I wrote from was me in my clothing. Both imaginary, all me.
Writing those letters changed my relationship to the studio and to working in it.
To find myself having built another's veneer strangely enough to be called "other" was terrifying. I could not even worry about violence done to her, as she had ceased to be another months before. It was terrifying because it was so well built I counted it as another person, as her, for months.
This killed outside. There wasn't and isn't any outside. It is always all me.
Just as the love of love songs is misleading, as the other that is being sung about is the constructed other of the self singing, my attributing otherness to accidents in painting was misleading as I have spent years in the studio, and those years have built control.
As I constructed a veneer of J. to cover the mysteries I couldn't access because of silence, I constructed a veneer of accident to cover the mysteries of what paint did when I wasn't looking, touching, acting.
In the end the only unintentional part was the construction of the veneers because it is too slow to see and works seamlessly from some space where you can claim knowing.
At some point I was near enough to J. and accident to name them, now those theys go by the names "me" and "me" because in stopping writing to her, and in stopping chasing fleeting accident, nothing is left but the veneer.

Art Pee Jokes

My very first post was a much more literate joke, but today's were all pee jokes.
I keep thinking I am making he funniest paintings I've ever made right now in the studio. The next painting i finish will be called "Why are you looking up here, the joke's in your hand"
Related to my constant thoughts on personal pronoun use in art (more to come on that soon enough), I want to name a show "I weed in your eye".
In more domestic design matters, I need to make a sign for my bathroom that reads "I peed in your pool. Swim in my toilet!"

Mark Making and Shaky Personal Pronoun Use

The inevitability and simultaneity of the single final image, read by the static viewer looking down time, foreshortens the creation narrative to a point that sequential reading is ridiculous. The narrative is seen simultaneously through its end. Redemptive ends, modest and underwritten from the beginning, cloud the viewer’s eyes with their celebrations of post-death space. My actions, the removal and re-attaching of sections from the same painting, confuse the sequence even further, nudges a sequential reading into the vicinity of the absurd.

Without the possibility of moving along a narrative, as in books or songs or films, inconsistency in personal pronoun use in mark making confuses and celebrates the inevitable heroism of the final composition.

Marks made as:
The I and We of modernism.
The You of pop-art.
The They of contemporary painting.
He as someone outside of me.
He as me, referred to by myself, outside.
I in We’s clothing.
We with I insides.

All of these contained by the inevitable singular end. This embracing I allows the cell walls of affectation, authentic, ironic and sincere to dissolve and allows me to travel between pronouns, and act simultaneously within several pronouns without pursuing the simple translation between two from one to another. Transubstantiation and transmutation are so much more fun than translation.

To attempt, in mark making, consistency in personal pronoun use is to allude to an outside narrative the viewer could move along. An authoritative narrative that reduces the painting to a document describing the irrelevancy of its own form.