Some piano thrills are a dash of paint, some clusters are light scribbles. Hopping on the keys like hot stone, moisturising the canvas like flaking skin. Crumbs of pastel and stains of oil, strands of bristle. Trying not to be careful, careful not to try, stabbing the white. When the pianist relaxes the colours exhale into a murky cloud, then spit carelessly into a corner. Under artificial light eyes are stressed and challenged. Patterns and patterns repeated, variations and variations reiterated, the painter throws sketches on the floor like a child throwing a fit. There is no “zone” except a tireless left brain that tries too hard. When the mind wanders into the absurd news reports on the radio, the painting paints itself and regardless of how brainless it appears to be, it is alive with ugly originality. Ugly sketches must be kept so that they can be loved when aesthetic values catch up. Despite how disturbingly ugly they are, the ugly sketches know that everything appears in order to make a valuable appearance, even if only to be witnessed by the creaking wooden floor and crumbling walls, or to be buried deep inside our shameless psyche.