Every time I try to paint something,
I hate it. Every time I let go of the idea
that it has to become anything,
I am free.

I have learned that I cannot command art.
Life is the one making things — and it will not stay inside the neat little frame of thinking I offer it.

So, now when I sit down to paint,
in a way my knees are rarely grateful for,
I tell myself that my only job is to
get out of the fucking way.