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Look At Any Inspired Painting. It's Like A Gong Sounding; It Puts You In A State Of Reverberation.

-Philip Guston

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Look At Any Inspired

Philip Guston

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Look At Any Inspired Painting. It's Like A Gong Sounding; It Puts You In A State Of Reverberation.

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Then You Learn About Composition, You Learn About Old Masters, You Form Certain Ideas About Structure. But The Inhuman Activity Of Trying To Make Some Kind Of Jump Or Leap, Where , The Painting Is Always Saying, 'what Do You Want From Me? I Can Only Be A Painting.' You Have To Go From Part To Part, But You Shouldn't See Yourself Go From Part To Part, That's The Whole Point.

Painting And Sculpture Are Very Archaic Forms. It's The Only Thing Left In Our Industrial Society Where An Individual Alone Can Make Something With Not Just His Own Hands, But Brains, Imagination, Heart Maybe.

Frustration Is One Of The Great Things In Art. Satisfaction Is Nothing.

The Canvas You Are Working On Modifies The Previous Ones In An Unending, Baffling Chain Which Never Seems To Finish. What Sympathy Is Demanded Of The Viewer? He Is Asked To 'see' The Future Links.

Painting Seems Like Some Kind Of Peculiar Miracle That I Need To Have Again And Again.

Studio Ghosts: When You're In The Studio Painting, There Are A Lot Of People In There With You - Your Teachers, Friends, Painters From History, Critics... And One By One If You're Really Painting, They Walk Out. And If You're Really Painting You Walk Out.

I Feel More As If I'm Shaping Something With My Hands. I Feel As If I've Always Wanted To Get To That State. Like A Blind Man In A Dark Room Had Some Clay, What Would He Make? I End Up With 2 Or 3 Forms On A Canvas, But It Gets Very Physical For Me.

Usually I Am On A Work For A Long Stretch, Until A Moment Arrives When The Air Of The Arbitrary Vanishes, And The Paint Falls Into Positions That Feel Destined.

There Comes A Point When The Paint Doesn't Feel Like Paint. I Don't Know Why. Some Mysterious Thing Happens. I Think You Have All Experienced It... What Counts Is That The Paint Should Really Disappear, Otherwise It's Craft.

Mysterious Things

If The Artist Starts Evaluating Himself, It’s An Enormous Block, Isn’t It?

Sometimes I Scrape Off A Lot. You Have On The Floor, Like Cow Dung In The Field, This Big Glob Of Paint... And It's Just A Lot Of Inert Matter, Inert Paint. Then I Look Back At The Canvas, And It's Not Inert - It's Active, Moving And Living.

Usually I Draw In Relation To My Painting, What I Am Working On At The Time. On A Lucky Day A Surprising Balance Of Forms And Spaces Will Appear... Making Itself, The Image Taking Hold. This In Turn Moves Me Toward Painting - Anxious To Get To The Same Place, With The Actuality Of Paint And Light.

In My Experience A Painting Is Not Made With Colors And Paint At All. I Don't Know What A Painting Is; Who Knows What Sets Off Even The Desire To Paint?

No Good To Paint In The Head - What Happens Is What Happens When You Put The Paint Down - You Can Only Hope That You Are Alert - Ready - To See. What Joy It Is For Paint To Become A Thing - A Being. Believe In This Miracle - It Is Your Only Hope. To Will This Transformation Is Not Possible. Only A Slow Maturation Can Prepare The Hand And Eye To Become Quicker Than Ever. Ideas About Art Don't Matter. They Collapse Anyway In Front Of The Painting.

There's Some Mysterious Process At Work Here, Which I Don't Even Want To Understand.

Where Do You Put A Form? It Will Move All Around, Bellow Out And Shrink, And Sometimes It Winds Up Where It Was In The First Place. But At The End It Feels Different, And It Had To Make The Voyage. I Am A Moralist And Cannot Accept What Has Not Been Paid For, Or A Form That Has Not Been Lived Through.

I Should Like To Paint Like An Man Who Has Never Seen A Painting, But This Man -myself - Lives In A Museum.

That's What I Mean By Something Grips In A Canvas. The Moment That Happens You Are Then Sucked Into The Whole Thing. Like Some Kind Of Rhythm.

I Have A Studio In The Country - In The Woods - But My Paintings Look More Real To Me Than What Is Outdoors. You Walk Outside; The Rocks Are Inert; Even The Clouds Are Inert. It Makes Me Feel A Little Better. But I Do Have A Faith That It Is Possible To Make A Living Thing, Not A Diagram Of What I Have Been Thinking: To Posit With Paint Something Living, Something That Changes Each Day.

I'm Not Interested In Painting; I'm Not Interested In Making A Picture. Then What The Hell Am I Interested In? I Must Be Interested In This Process.

The Things I Felt... About Certain Painters Of The Past That... Inspired Me, Like Cezanne And Manet... That Complete Losing Of Oneself In The Work To Such An Extent That The Work Itself... Felt As If A Living Organism Was Posited There On The Canvas, On This Surface... That's Truly... The Act Of Creation.

You Know, Comments About Style Always Seem Strange To Me - 'why Do You Work In This Style, Or In That Style' - As If You Had A Choice In The Matter... What You're Doing Is Trying To Stay Alive And Continue And Not Die.

Lots Of Artists Who Paint Have The Experience To One Degree Or Another... Where Their Thinking Doesn't Precede Their Doing... It's A Funny Thing, What I Really Hate Yet I Have To Go Through With It, Is The Preparation.

Do I Really Believe That? I Make A Mark, A Few Strokes, I Argue With Myself, Not Do I Like Or Not, But Is It True Or Not? Is That What I Mean, Is That What I Want?

The Canvas Is A Court Where The Artist Is Prosecutor, Defendant, Jury And Judge. Art Without A Trial Disappears At A Glance.

The Painting Is Not On A Surface, But On A Plane Which Is Imagined. It Moves In A Mind. It Is Not There Physically At All. It Is An Illusion, A Piece Of Magic, So That What You See Is Not What You See.

Many Works Of The Past Complete What They Announce They Are Going To Do, To Our Increasing Boredom. Certain Others Plague Me Because I Cannot Follow Their Intentions. I Can Tell At A Glance What Fabritius Is Doing, But I Am Spending My Life Trying To Find Out What Rembrandt Was Up To.

But You Begin To Feel As You Go On Working That Unless Painting Proves Its Right To Exist By Being Critical And Self-judging, It Has No Reason To Exist At All - Or Is Not Even Possible. The Canvas Is A Court Where The Artist Is Prosecutor, Defendant, Jury And Judge. Art Without A Trial Disappears At A Glance.

More Than A Process, Painting Is Being Possessed.

We Are Image-makers And Image-ridden... We Work Until We Vanish.

All These Troubles Revolve Around The Irritable Mutual Dependence Of Life And Art - With Their Need And Contempt For One Another. Of Necessity, To Create Is A Temporary State And Cannot Be Possessed.

There Are So Many Things In The World - In The Cities - So Much To See. Does Art Need To Represent This Variety And Contribute To Its Proliferation? Can Art Be That Free? The Difficulties Begin When You Understand What It Is That The Soul Will Not Permit The Hand To Make.

To Will A New Form Is Unacceptable, Because Will Builds Distortion. Desire, Too, Is Incomplete And Arbitrary. These Strategies, However Intimate They Might Become, Must Especially Be Removed To Clear The Way For Something Else.

Painting Is An Illusion, A Piece Of Magic, So What You See Is Not What You See. I Don't Know What A Painting Is; Who Knows What Sets Off Even The Desire To Paint? It Might Be Things, Thoughts, A Memory, Sensations, Which Have Nothing To Do Directly With Painting Itself. They Can Come From Anything And Anywhere.

It Is Possible To Make A Living Thing, Not A Diagram Of What I Have Been Thinking: To Posit With Paint Something Living, Something That Changes Each Day.

What Is Seen And Called The Picture Is What Remains - An Evidence. Even As One Travels In Painting Toward A State Of 'unfreedom' Where Only Certain Things Can Happen, Unaccountably The Unknown And Free Must Appear.

When I See People Making 'abstract' Painting, I Think It's Just A Dialogue And A Dialogue Isn't Enough. That Is To Say, There Is You Painting And This Canvas. I Think There Has To Be A Third Thing; It Has To Be A Trialogue.

Abstract Painting

I Am A Night Painter, So When I Come Into The Studio The Next Morning The Delirium Is Over.

Look At Any Inspired Painting. It's Like A Gong Sounding; It Puts You In A State Of Reverberation.

Painting Is An Illusion, A Piece Of Magic, So What You See Is Not What You See.

It Is The Bareness Of Drawing That I Like. The Act Of Drawing Is What Locates, Suggests, Discovers. At Times It Seems Enough To Draw, Without The Distractions Of Color And Mass. Yet It Is An Old Ambition To Make Drawing And Painting One.

To Paint Is A Possessing Rather Than A Picturing.

I Go To The Studio Everyday Because One Day I May Go And The Angel Will Be There. What If I Don't Go And The Angel Comes?

To Paint Is Always To Start At The Beginning Again, Yet Being Unable To Avoid The Familiar Arguments About What You See Yourself Painting.

I Do Not See Why The Loss Of Faith In The Known Image And Symbol In Our Time Should Be Celebrated As A Freedom. It Is A Loss From Which We Suffer, And This Pathos Motivates Modern Painting And Poetry At Its Heart.

Probably The Most Potent Desire For A Painter, An Image-maker, Is To See It. To See What The Mind Can Think And Imagine, To Realize It For Oneself, Through Oneself, As Concretely As Possible.

There Is Something Mysterious In This Work That I Do Not Ever What To Discover.

Painting Seems Like Impossibility, With Only A Sign Now And Then Of Its Own Light.

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