I feel I owe my life two thousand five hundred more good paintings.
That exact many because if I had done a painting a week for fifty years, I could have done that many. And, in fact, I have probably painted at least a thousand paintings. I had months of a painting a day. And surely, ten thousand drawings. But never a truly sustained output.
A few hundred of those paintings were pretty good. But, how could I knock out any abundance without having any sustaining vision?
My life. I had no sustaining vision. I could not figure it out.
Oh, this has been a poor showing!
But I did figure it out.
My job is to show the brightness of the world. A few see it. I see it. I can show you.
Yes, a few thousand more paintings. Good ones. Only good ones count. Sometimes, I can dash off something wondrous in a flash, but usually not. I have to work at it.
So that means I have to work.
I feel my heart going pitter-pat. It does not beat evenly. I live with this strange arrhythmic death sentence every trembling second. How many beats left? It frightens me. I thought I had more time.
This unfinished image represents about six hours work. Reality is a code. I crack it! Faster! Faster! Faster! Unfinished yet, you can see where I am going?