618
PARTISAN REVIEW
to my vision. The color cloud suddenly appeared real, something that
could be made into art. The next day I drove to the main hardware sup–
ply store in Bennington and rented a spray gun. I am apprehensive of
almost anything that plugs into a wall. I am defeated by TVs and
microwaves. I can handle a toaster, but short of that I fear and tremble.
It turned out that the spray gun-a sinister-looking instrument-comes
attached to something called a compressor, a tank like object, sullen and
alien. Later that day, in my studio in Shaftsbury, Vermont, I stapled a
large canvas to the floor. I attached the spray gun to the compressor and
filled the spray gun container, and held it in one hand while plugging the
compressor extension cord into a wall socket. The compressor roared
and advanced on me in a threatening manner. I wrenched its plug from
the socket.
Clearly things were not going smoothly; however, I managed to
secure the beast, and holding the gun, I slowly squeezed the trigger,
recalling suddenly the Zane Grey heros of my childhood, "Son, when
you go after Snake-eye Charlie, remember to take aim and just squeeze
the trigger slowly."
A mist of color had spread itself on part of the canvas. It was ravish–
ing. A new light, a new color; I was Apollo.
If
one gun was great, two
guns, two colors-ecstasy! A world of possibilities had opened. In this
manner I covered the canvas. That was about thirty-five years ago. I still
use a spray gun, sometimes as a last touch, and I still feel the same excite–
ment. Fortunately I found a spray gun that doesn't need a compressor.
That is how the spray paintings came about, lying in bed, imagining
a painting. It doesn't always work. It's more frequently like this: in the
bedroom darkness I may visualize a way of making a painting: I can see
it-if I do this and this and that and this, my God! Why haven't I seen
this until now? I can hardly wait to get to the studio and do the this and
that and make the vision real. Alas, all too often, the dream turns into
a mud puddle. I am left looking at a disaster. What to do? Keep work–
ing. I ask the Almighty for help. That frees me. Look at what He is able
to do with a handful of dust and a rib, and here I am with all this paint
and a brush and my life in my hands, and all I need is to make a good
work of art; I get back to work.
Several years ago I was asked to give a talk about color and color
theory, about which I'm supposed to know much, having been one of
the Color Field artists. Well, I told the truth. I said, "I don't know a
damn thing about color," meaning I have no theory about color. I've
read some theories by very knowledgeable people, but they did not pen–
etrate, because they were not useful to me. I work intuitively. I need to
