Rain in Culver City – Painting in the Future

While at an Office Depot this drippy morning picking up supplies with gallery owner Luis De Jesus, Hugo and I daydreamed the future of painting without paint:

The idea was that there would be a “smart” primer gesso substance which could be applied to any surface. It would be inert (no currents running through it) until it’s programmer/painter touched the surface with finger/hand/body part. Only then would the surface activate- change of color would appear.
The programmer would have their own unique palette of colors and would be the only one able to make any mark on the “smart” primer. The person would be the source of energy and would provide the other half of a code string (or something like this) which would activate the desired colors. How would the colors be differentiated? Pressure and heat senses are the obvious ones, but what if the paint was smart enough to recognize the  hormonal difference between the the artist on a good day versus a bad day or the  structural difference between an elbow and the the nail of the pinky finger of the left hand? -Colors could be assigned to each part! How much fun would that be! …
I hope some else out there catches the idea and the spark of creative will to make it happen.
Though it is essentially finger painting, I still think that for artists it would be a useful marriage of science and fine art- the the right hands – as it were.
It would be incredibly difficult to make a forgery of an artists work!
And it would be literally something coming from you and you alone. No one else could make that mark. For better or worse.
So this was my brain running along with Hugo’s thoughts into what little I know of biometrics and nano paint tech. And I have the time to sit and dream it out further and blog about it! That is an amazing thing to me right now. I am on vacation! I can have time for my daydreams. Yay!

struggling to compose

the cancerous morning air
BQE traffic destroys me at a cellular level
every morning – five days out of the week
and when i come home from office places i  feel murder brewing hard behind
the bones of my face turning to a sick jade death mask
i dont want to breathe
i am tired of cigarette smoke pouring out of the lips of children in a city over-run with combustion engines
i dont want to breathe cigarette smoke unless your breath is mixed with it
what are all these pretty little darlings to you?
i am tired of them and i turn away from their laughter
their cycles deflect me to quieter roads
no desire is in me to join them
the pollution of sorrow is layered on me because you are not walking beside me
why should i keep the tangles from my hair and the red spots from my face?
there is no bourbon bottle thoughts to make light of the daily chores besieging me
i do not want to breathe
but sighs come often