Script Page 12

I brought some of those blank wall oils back and really painted girls in them later. This was my production line era. Hell, I painted black girls, white girls, red girls. All colors in those East Berlin pictures. I think I still got some of them around. But they're all different.

That was something of a test of endurance for me. I know they didn't want me over there painting their mistakes. But I was determined to do it. Found out we didn't have a single thing in common except those two words...pretty girl...and that did it. Pretty soon just got tired of painting ugly wally and pretty girls, so I went to something else...a no-day man can do that.

My endurance lets me paint about sixty to eighty paintings a year. Emma Bellows told me that George Bellows did 215 canvases in his lifetime. So I paint 205 in 1959, so you see the difference there.

Edgar Allen Poe has a whole life in one volume. He wrote and rewrote his dark stories. But take a Wadsworth. He did thirty volumes...all different. Endurance. He had a good track record.

My endurance record is hanging all over this house. You writers sit in some least that's the way you like to talk about it...and write and write...then you have to worry about getting it printed...published. You have to have a different kind of endurance. Painters don't worry too much about getting published. I'm published on every wall In the place. I like everything I do...some better than others. But t still like my own way of getting published. If someone comes in here today and looks at one painting, and says he likes it, then I've had a good day. I like that. Of course, if. I stay here all day by myseIf and nobody comes around to look at anything...then that's alright too. I'm here and I'm satisfying, myself. I'm my own best critic. Never have scraped a head off...though.


(On feuds)

People say I have feuds...that I have a feud with Max Weber! Don't have a feud on with Max Weber...the man's an ass...

I'm not even sure he's a man. My feud is with the department of fine arts in every college in the Big Ten. Our universities are studying about cubism practiced in 1905...they cluster in classes and talk about "art in the periphery" because they have to. Gawdammit, they can't even look at a car straight-on and paint it.

Max Weber threw out three of my of them was a hillbilly in a junkyard...a man tearing down an old car on a hillside. I painted it in bright sunshine...a junky background in Kentucky...I was painting in the junkyard and asked him if he'd pose for me...this was one of the paintings Weber threw out. Don't remember the others...point is, this is representational, communicative type of painting.

Really, I'm more of an abstractionist the august sense of the word, than these...these dribblers.

I don't get back and throw paint at a canvas. I am a visual painter. These men get in an attic in New York and paint some intellectual's a tragic situation in America when the average man will go there and say "What is it?" The average man isn't lacking in Intelligence. It's the artist who hasn't the ability to communicate in paint...or in words with these human beings. Hell, Max Weber is one of these...these bearded goofs.

Hell, there are some of this stripe up there at Ohio State who couldn't even paint my fence...and I probably wouldn't let them, either.

The quarrel I have with universities is that I talk with some idiot up there and he tells me he is painting the splitting of an atom. Isn't it exciting? Hell, the scientists with their million dollar microscopes have never seen an atom split. It's invisible... but they know it's taking here I quarrel with the conception of painting completely from your imagination. I don't even believe in imagination in the sense that you have a mind that's fed by the five senses...course there is such a thing as imagination, but if your thinking apparatus works with the five senses that is fed by this visible world, the auditory world, the sensate world, this gives you your food for thought...and if there is a Jack in the beanstalk that goes around the moon, it's still Jack... and it's still a's like Renaissance and the Bible... the painters of know you never see an angel.

Well, the only way the imagination can create an angel is to take a beautiful dame...maybe git a dove...kill the poor little old thing and put the wings on a back rump of a girl. And they say...oh, my god, she's from heaven. Gawddammit, I don't want a girl in heaven

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