I am trying to take a picture of my studio wall—rather, I was trying to. Now I am writing this. But earlier, earlier, before it was even light out, I was trying to take a picture of my studio wall. Many of the paintings I am currently making require light to complete them. Not in the sense that we all need light to see, but in the sense that the paintings change, and the way we read them, changes according to the way the light plays on them. They are very much made with this in mind. They are like screens on which a film is projected. Sort of, but not exactly, for they are paintings, not screens. I am making paintings right now that are not good food for the voracious monster that is social media. They are subtle and quiet and depthful paintings that want time, I think, to understand and appreciate, and people are no longer accustomed to looking at things for longer than a second, if even that—however long it takes to move a finger to get to the next image, they do not spend time with anything other than the flow of imagery, the flow, you understand, and not the images themselves (most of which are scarcely worth consideration). The work I did before, with its bright colors and characterfulness, this work was perfectly suited to the glance lasting only a second. But the work I am doing now really ought to be lived with and watched, watched over a period of time, watched as the globe moves around the sun, as natural light dies and artificial light comes on, they are paintings to get lost in, but it will not be possible to convey this through photographs of the individual paintings themselves, and so I thought perhaps a picture of my studio wall in the morning light, first artificial, now natural, might convey something of their power, but I do not think even that will work. I think what would work is for us to go back in time, when paintings were viewed in the flesh rather than the fast-moving picture strips we are now so used to that we probably don't even really see anymore. After all, when your eye is given image after image after image, when it swims in a continuous and all-pervasive river of imagery, how can we see with any discernment, any connection at all to what our eyes are taking in, how can they not be clouded as with a cataracts, coated in a film of river muck?