The road you have not chosen

I’ve been dipping into a book of reflections and lectures by the north American painter Philip Guston (I paint what I want to see, 2022) and fascinated by how he felt when he had finished a work and had nothing to work on. He thought he would never paint again, he felt liberated and unburdened, and would go out to parties for a week or two before starting work again on some new idea.

I suspect this is quite unusual. When I think a piece is ‘finished’ (often of course it isn’t: when is it, really, even if published?) I’ll sometimes have another idea to turn to and get on with, or even something already underway. But if not, I don’t know what to do, I really struggle, and I lack purpose. It's not very pleasant, although I’ve learned not to panic and to resist labouring over something that I know isn't going to work. The sensation is backed by the fear of never again having anything to write, while still being suffused with, or consumed by, the compulsion to write. It’s similar to the sensation I used to have in my past, when I was a fairly serious athlete, and if I got a niggle that turned into an injury, I would fear that it was the last injury I’d ever have – in the sense that I wouldn’t ever be able to run again. Happily that has not been the case.

Painting smoking eating Philip Guston 1973

Incidentally, as a footnote on Guston’s reflections, I was struck by a note dated 1978 in which he remarks “American abstract art is a lie, a sham, a cover-up for a poverty of spirit”. About five decades ago, I too was attracted to it, as Guston himself had been apparently, but have long since felt that there is much less than meets the eye. Speaking about his own work, Guston goes on, in a way that resonates for me: “A painting feels lived-out to me… The paintings aren’t pictures, but evidences – maybe documents, along the road you have not chosen, but are on nevertheless”.