Working in a two-dimensional space to create the illusion of the third dimension—what a funny thing to do, a funny way to spend one's time, attempting to create the illusion of what exists in abundance all around one as one practically kills oneself in an undertaking that is essentially completely irrelevant and redundant. This is not despair that is speaking to you, maybe it is ruefulness, I don't yet know, as I am only two sentences in, I could very well remain two sentences in for many more lines, since I favor the comma over the period, with generous help from semi-colons and dashes and the occasional colon, but now I will end this sentence and take up my thought on the next train. (I think I would have preferred to end that with a colon, but then I would have been a kind of liar, and that is something, lying, I abhor, so): But I do not even think it is ruefulness, I think it is, on this morning, simple amusement, it amuses me that this is what I do, and I wonder if it is the very fundament, the wet cold stone of painting, that what it seeks to do, on the most basic level, is to create the illusion of the third dimension in, of course, a two-dimensional space. (Remember, I did not go to art school; we did not have these conversations over beers at the Rathskeller!) Because no matter what else I achieve in any given painting, it is always that illusion that is the thing, the achievement, if you will, that gives me the deepest satisfaction, really holds me in its thrall, a little awestruck, actually, delighted. And why shouldn't it? It is the creation of illusion, and that is magic, and who does not love magic? Of course it is more than that—it not just the illusion of three dimensions one is after (in a fundamental, pre-thought way), but also the depth and mystery and the richness and ephemerality of the fourth dimension, so that really, basically, what one is creating is spectacle, is theater, is life. If a painting is good, I mean really good, so that it strides with ease and purpose away from irrelevancy and redundancy, then it does not stop once the optical illusion is created. That is only its launching point, or, if you prefer, the stone around which the living fruit of the painting forms itself. And now, having said that, I would like to contradict myself (well, I wouldn't like to, but I have to), because of course it is not the creation of the illusion of the third dimension that gives me the "deepest satisfaction," of course it is not! Yet, I cannot expunge the statement, for it is very much a part of the architecture of this paragraph, and I do not, I can tell you I do not! have the energy left for dismantlement and reconstruction, so I will let it stand, but as it stands, know that it does so falsely, for it is an inaccurate statement, for the very deepest satisfaction comes once that painting is a living thing full of story, history, future, selfhood and autonomy. Put simply: full of breath. There is so much that is inaccurate about this paragraph, in light of this last sentence! There are times when writing is so self-devouring, it would have been better to have remained silent, to have the left the page unstained. The complexity of everything is just too much sometimes. I should have remained in my blue chair (what others call green), reading someone else's efforts! It is almost as though I need some aspirin now.