A sort of scuzz painting. Skins like cigarettes clinging Guston lips. Brush strokes congealed. Drawing that heals like a scab. We love paint, not painting, and the trick is to get the paint on the canvas without the absurdity of "painting" and the brushstrokes that denote it, and so Marsalis seems to paint it with sticks, mold it like Kristevan flesh, like detritus, like eye goo.
