A 1964 painting in the current exhibition, Bob Thompson: This House is Mine, at Chicago’s Smart Museum of Art.
I was hanging out with Elvin Jones and this nutty painter friend of mine Bob Thompson, which is like, if you listen to Elvin play, hanging out at the Olympics or participating in the motherfuckers. Trane is playing at the Half Note and after the last set the three of us lit out into the snow with those cats screaming at the tops of their lungs…man did we love each other that night, I mean completely, and at a real point of ecstasy…we went to Bob’s house and used up all his skag…and that shit always makes me sick, always. But we finally ended up standing on corner, Elvin and I, talking till 8:00 Am, and I was so exhausted and high and drunk by that time I slept till evening. Completely dishonest but wow we got into something other than just standing around being suffering fucking artists. Man those cats suffer on the run, which is what I dig, and take I suppose to be the truest playback of my sensibility. But not that earnest mediocrity…that calmness and stealth. Fuck that. Amiri Baraka & Edward Dorn: The Collected Letters