Fischl said “I paint to tell myself about myself.” Athena and I talked about that idea recently—about coming to the canvas or the stage as a one to one melding with the work through a natural movement inward. Where intensity of focus flows with an ease fueled by your molten center, your uninhibited truth. I adored how she spoke about her commitment to embodying the complex emotional pulse of Suddenly, Shockwave Delay for her performance in Istanbul last week. She reminded me that the choice is essentially binary; will you or won't you?
Which reminds me, I front squatted like a million kilos this morning at Redline. I think it was the first time I had lifted relatively heavy since, I don't know, 2016? An endorphin fountain at the end of that workout. Was smiling at babies and offering to buy random people coffees.
Then paint paint paint paint paint paint paint and a wet walk home around 17:00. At one point I was drafting a couple who were holding hands through Chelsea Harbour. A man, beard, probably thirties, tight blue jeans, gray vest over blue flannel. A woman, long amber hair whipping in the wind, probably thirties, tight blue jeans, black puffer jacket. There weren't any other humans on the horizon ahead of them. While I couldn't hear their conversation (Music For Psychedelic Therapy in my ears), they probably thought they were alone, because the man abruptly stopped at a roundabout and gave the woman's left asscheek an extended five-finger squeeze. She reacted like a dog forced through a garden hose rinse.