"The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us" says Wallace Stevens in "The Relations Between Poetry and Painting". I reread this today, thinking of it after reading a post by John MacKenzie, then I headed back down to the studio to face the paint laden canvas.
The painting I found surprised me. Beyond the rough terrain and unpredictable weather typical of an unfinished painting was something I didn't recognize. As I spent the day painting, forgetting to eat, missing the snow, the plows, the salt trucks, I wondered if I'd stumbled upon a new world yesterday - or worlds, worlds the sun holds just a bit closer or maybe a bit further away - or was the painting, smeared with post-Stevens ebullience, merely glowing in my mind? From where I stood and from where I now stand it's hard to tell.