Perhaps, the act of painting only repeats the act of painting undertook by de Kooning, and Manet and Courbet before him, and El Greco, before them and Jan van Eyck before that.
I no longer know. Nothing is concrete anymore; no grand ideas, no manifestos. We only have small arbitrary moments in which we are lost to daydreams; simulations previously played out by past generations which we interpret rather than accept as experiences without meaning.
But perhaps, with enough repetition we can forget interpretation in the experience of the resulting references. The sense that language would be understood as an experience of references that mean nothing, but feel something. There could be a poetics of references, the result of too many repetitions and the wearing out of meaning.
Perhaps the repetitions of a single action would better explain this.
Perhaps.