it didn’t describe me belonged in the library of words I can’t spell| no matter how many times they tell you just try harder sound it out simple when you think about it. Stop giving me the third degree don’t put me down don’t make me fret I can’t learn my alphabet it doesn’t go in any logical order the stress gives me attention deficit disorder at school I wanted to go it alone they told me that’s unwise they called me unteachable
The drawing wants to draw what is invisible to the naked eye.It’s very difficult.The effort to write is always beyond my strength. What you see here, these lines, these strokes, are rungs on the ladder of writing, the steps which I have cut with my fingernails in my own wall, in order to hoist myself up above and beyond myself.
Cixous, Hélène, and Catherine A. F. MacGillivray. “Without End No State of Drawingness No, Rather: The Executioner\’s Taking Off.” New Literary History, vol. 24, no. 1, 1993, pp. 91–103. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/469272
This drawing lingers for me. Not wanting to call itself done. Yet, even when I call it finished, it calls me back. A friend asked me what I was doing a few times when he called from New York, and I told him, “I am working on a drawing, and it won’t end.” He asked me, “How do you know when it is done… Don’t you stop?” Well, no. You don’t just stop. Some might say I should. I am moving on, but it sits on my desk. Done for the moment.