Blog

In the studio today working on a new painting. It’s progressing nicely but is not yet complete. There’s something special about creating work much like an unfolding narrative, each stroke a new piece of dialog between the work and me. What develops is a concoction of ideas, a kind of call and response like some of those old hymns or field hollers, a mix of memories from childhood, a flash of color seen while hiking mountain trails or casually crossing the street – it doesn’t really matter for there is no narrative here, just a collection of colors and shapes, textures tied to gesture and feeling. The painting builds like a rising song with harmony and rhythm yet does so silently. The visual statement will resonate for years to come as the expression of a moment in time, a series of moments really but all held into the web of paint that lies like skin upon the surface of its fabric. The paints, the stretchers, the cloth now transformed into the singular object that begs to be seen in order to have some meaning, to have its existence recognized. And whenever it is viewed, that song will rise again for whoever is willing to look and listen. Such is the mystery and magic of art.