Much time has passed, I still can see through eyes I had as a child, in my mind. I can think back and think about thinking something and get into that space. Time changes you, events change you, life changes you, as you change, so does your perspective. To find that quiet still, that true connection to self is the most peaceful place in the world. When I paint, I am there. The work is all instinctive, there is no forethought, pretense, or agenda. The painting could be 3 strokes or 12, I am never sure. If I allow thought to enter the equation, self-doubt occurs, critical head voice starts its incessant chatter. Right or wrong overshadows, and I fold like origami. Too tired to fold anymore, cards on the table, brush strokes have dried, I expose myself, I own it, I share it, I love it. I believe in them. Perhaps the paint on the paper comes from the soul, exposing deep passion and pain, can’t have one without the other, it’s just the juxtaposition of life, I suppose.
Each one of them is a part of me, only time I can go that deep is with brush in hand. I find them visually stunning in their simplistic nature
