What I'd like to do is say something new. But perhaps photography cannot do that? And besides, why something new? What's wrong with honing the old? Am I not always thinking, if rarely saying, that art now is too quick to attempt to destroy the old and put up something new, something provocative, before we've even half-way exhausted what the old is capable of? And also, don't I want an oil painting of the view through a car windscreen on a rainy winter's evening on the M6 at the junction with the M54, done with all the style and attention to detail of a Caravaggio? Yes, I do.
Anyway, the above are an attempt at something new, something ambiguous, something with the aleatory to the front and centre. But perhaps I ought to explore the old for a while longer yet.
Another thought occurs to me: the aleatory appeals because it is the closest I can get to being surprised by my own work - with muse as partner, freshness is possible. This makes me happy. And closer to Pollock than I would like. And no, I don't mean I'm in the same category, league or anything else: I'm not deluded.