Do you ever go back to books you read a long time ago and look at the notes you made in the margin and wonder, not only what the hell you were thinking about when you made that note, but who the hell you were when you read the book? I was poking around in Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria just for fun (it’s a strange and silly book & it’s where we get the phrase “the willing suspension of disbelief”) and found lots of notes I made in the margins when I read the book in graduate school. They’re s confounding.
I cut the book up and modge podged (is that a great verb, or what?) it onto canvas.
I also did The Fountainhead and Brave New World this afternoon, and I’ll do either Catcher in the Rye or Lord of the Flies next chance I get to spend the day pretending to be an artist. Then, I will paint them all somehow–I had a plan in mind for the painting when I started, but that was before I knew that these would be so damn cool. Now I have to come up with a much better plan.