Sunday afternoon

"There is no abstract art. You must always start with something. Afterward you can remove all traces of reality" -Pablo Picasso

I started by thinking about the exercise class I teach at the hospital. How everyone is whisked into the cafeteria in their wheel chairs and we all start waving our arms. What might it feel like to find yourself there after having had a stroke? Being sure not to raise your arms too high because you just had a coronary artery bypass. Trying to remember not to get up out of your chair because you no longer have legs. The woman with the traumatic brain injury who starts talking at random in the middle of the class because she's lost the part of herself that notices social cues. And myself trying to choreograph it all, riding the wave between "How did I get myself into this?" and "What a blast!" Despite all the chaotic pieces some sort of harmony ensues.

When I make work like this I find myself asking, "Am I going crazy or am I making abstract art?" And, "What is the difference between a Franz Kline and a piece of crap?" I mean that with all sincerity as I love Franz Kline's work, but I couldn't tell you why. What makes some smeared paint find its way into a museum while another can be made by any old body on a Sunday afternoon?

If you receive this as an email, link back to my blog to see the pieces better. I don't like the way the pictures get all stuck together in the emails, they need space in between.