Agnes said that painting is not about ideas or personal emotion, that the object is freedom. The 6 thicker lines seem to dominate, but it’s the 12 thin lines between them that I can’t stop looking at, because of their silence, their near disappearance. Yesterday, when I looked out the front window, I thought I saw a thick rope at the end of the driveway. When I looked again later, it was gone. Once something is written, it disappears. Before anything is written, it is completely possible. Once the line is drawn, the light narrows to a pinhole. What is art but trying to make something resemble what it was before it was made, when it was still unknown and free? The desire to draw a line is to ask a rhetorical question. All future lines are an attempt to answer that question. This year, I scribbled things down that I could read, that made sense to me, but no one else could understand. I wrote for an entire year and when I looked up, the ocean was dry, some men were signing more treaties, and the moon had been sold at auction.