Pillars and table legs. And trees. Weeds, the ground. Cloudy sky, six o’clock in the afternoon. My head is empty.
–From the following TEXT
The object I see in a state of comfortable concentration is no longer in the foreground or background, and no longer reaches me in touch or feel. I write down on paper something that is perceived by the consciousness of one person who faces or mixes with the bare landscape in a sense. Why do I draw? Why do people paint? At dusk, waiting for his mother to return, he draws something on the soil with a branch. There is no intention, but the thought of something may be very strong. When you make a “work of art,” you let go of something. For the boy, it was the return of his mother. The “work” is very cruel, but not very important. Neither the title nor the content. My obsession collapses.