There is no form or style in words, only what is in my head.
Even I am not sure of what that it.
Writing is the only way to find out.
White on white.
Why do I like it so much?
I think I would make my best work if I could make the picture disappear entirely.
An eternal Robert Irwin.
What bothers me so much that makes me want to wipe it clean with hard work?
To labour the invisible.
Condemning myself to perpetual eradication.
Is it eradication if it takes you 100 hours?
Robert Irwin, Robert Rauschenberg, Robert Morris.
Masters of the disappearing act.
Must I change my name to Robert then?
If all that matters is the surface; the trace,
What good is a photograph?
Do words have any say at all in the matter?
I will write down every word I know
Until I have learned how to put them all together.
Is it all an undoing?
A laying out of ideas, a build to the righteous finish,
Only to embark on a slow and steady dismantling.
Until you’re back where you started
With slightly more poise.
I believe the only answer is the admittance of its own lack.
