Three weeks ago I stretched and primed a linen for a still life I have been thinking about since winter, a copper pot and two leeks, nothing more. And I keep walking past it. Twenty coats of rabbit skin glue and lead white, sanded between, and it should be ready. It is ready.

The problem is I have started to like the empty panel more than I trust the painting. It has that hot, matte pull to it, the weave just barely showing, and every time I think about putting the first dead layer down I find something else that needs doing. Cleaning a palette knife. Reorganizing the studio by color. Reading Barthes, which I did not need to do.

I know what this is. I taught long enough to recognize it in other people. But there is something specific about this one, because I know exactly what the painting looks like finished, and it is a good one, and that is somehow worse than not knowing. As long as it is not started it is still perfect.

Today I put the pot on the table in the north light and made myself look at it for an hour without touching anything. Tomorrow I put paint down. Voilà. Saying it here so it is said.