Entering the line. Each line has its own thickness, its own tightness, torsion, shagginess. That’s right, every line is a minge. When you enter the line, it is no longer there, you don’t see what it is meant to to represent, but you look out of it into the world, as from a window. There are lines from which it is especially convenient to do this — the wrinkles on the forehead, the creases running from the nose to the lips, the eyebrows.
Each painted face is a moving system of windows from which you look out into the world. A kind of brontosaurus, hung with windows. The brontosaurus — the crawling, peering, quivering asshole — is you. The brontosaurus’s evolution is your nausea. The death of the brontosaurus is your destiny.
But for now throw yellow on blue, and in such a way that the green… Not on your life!
Translated by the Russian Reader