The morning slips beneath the curtain before I have consented to exist. It is not light that wakens me but the pressure of being expected somewhere, by someone who does not know me and therefore cannot know that I have almost disappeared during the night. Every morning I gather myself as children gather shells left by the tide, wondering whether these scattered fragments shored against my ruins belong together at all. There is a hand upon the washstand. It is my hand. There i

John Pohl I try to photograph the paintings I have worked on during a session in the studio so that I can document their evolution. If I see something in an earlier version I like, I will put some of it back in the next session. My photographs are organized by year, and if a painting is made over several years, it can be hard to match a painting with its predecessor, especially if there was a a paint-over in a different year, and I didn’t go back to the previous year to find

Because there are, whether we admit it in those lean years when we still imagine tomorrow to be an inexhaustible country or only afterward when tomorrow has dwindled into the immured province of recollection, certain quixotic evenings that refuse the common obedience owed to time itself, refusing to sink into that anonymous reservoir where so many days, equally bright while they were being lived and equally forgotten once they have surrendered their brief tenancy of the earth