Is this an artist’s voice or a mad woman’s passion?
A painting’s birth is always contemplative for me.
I look for what can be; meanings, whispers, anything at all…
Dragons, birds, women, landscapes, animals, flowers, trees,
blood, tears, seeking within the imagery, meaning, struggle, a beginning ~
Mouth-watering color blends and blooms.
In seeking meaning, does it change each moment?
So random, fleeting… If not held more tightly than I am willing?
Each passing moment is new, never seen before.
Each passing moment changing…
I paint love~making of white paper slick with sparkling water
Intense hues merging, sometimes jarring upon my stage.
The juxtaposition, a marriage of opposites, showing up to make marks already inscribed upon hidden places in my heart…
I love the dance, the splash, the surprise.
Flowing to water’s siren song, watercolor glides into absorbent softness.
Their embrace, mesmerizing, shadows on a wall.
Images emerge seemingly random.
It plays within my mind.
Irresistible alchemy, the inner workings of mind within the magic that is art making.
I make meaning in this magic, continually striving for that orgasmic moment when all comes together as one.
Like a connection to something “other”, a “greater than I” energy,
the forces of all that is, within and without.
Is this an artist’s voice or a mad woman’s passion? Or is it, perhaps, both?
I care not either way.
Watercolor, for me, is being a child with a new box of crayons each time I drip my first glazes of paint on wet paper.
All jostling, waiting impatiently to be used NOW NOW NOW!
They practically splash themselves…
Like little girls in party dresses who cannot sit still but must run out and play with everybody that already ran outside.
The playground is my paper, slick, wet and waiting,
no matter puddles and reprimands.
The magic lies in a willingness to see nothing as perfect as it already is and risking for a glimpse of alchemy in it’s becoming something other.
Intriguing, challenging, beautiful colors sing with operatic voices.
The heart may break to find one’s blood upon the page.
Art is heart, mind and body coming forth upon the page, the canvas, the clay, the screen, the lover, the stage.
I paint experience, if only referenced by a glance
or blue shadows seen.
A glassy sea of pristine white water…
Picnics in fields of crows…
Pain, trauma, abuse, love.
An abstraction of one thought after another.
I paint because I am. I paint because I must paint.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.