Empty Canvas

  Dizziness in front of an empty canvas. Death is an empty canvas that we could never fill, fathomless non-existence free of will and mistake. Biology displays a representation of life as a sequence of chance, trial and error, but what kind of knowledge do we gain from it? What is the meaning of chance, or of error? Maybe they are just ways of understanding the all too simple straight ways of our will, life’s will, that produce a thin shadow of fleeting security, a brick house resembling shelter in the middle of the ongoing storm… We are precariously sheltered.

  How to begin a painting? Robert Motherwell said that he began with a series of mistakes that were later corrected by feeling. Old metaphysics to face the unheimlich. I recall Robert Mussil: it does not matter what you do, but what you do next. And then, when to stop? Are we to stop simply by dopamine exhaustion, or by any random feeling of fulfillment, when we arbitrarily think that nothing is left to tell and the instant sinks down into perfection? I don’t believe so, for the road continuously splits ahead, and an empty canvas is but a weightless atmosphere where our demiurgic identity soars.