|I work with oil paint. Wherever darkness meets light, an image is formed in the eye of the mind, texture suggests images. Vast collective energy funneled into forms of individuality. The mystery of creation.
Waiting for a subway, looking at a torn section of the wall, streaked and rusted it looks like an otherworldly landscape filled with faces and figures, like an x-ray of a fragment of an old religious painting, utterly mysterious and familiar, The living and the dead greet each other, “How do you do? Was it good for you?”
I try to create a condition on the arena of the canvas where something like that has a chance to appear. The images appear in the paint, they come and go, transform, combine, separate, live, die, comfort each other, decay, hang in there, disappear. Thick, thin, violent, calm, they wade through texture and darkness and light.
Like a silent jam of music, trying to find order, to make it work, and as often as not the best is lost, the whalers cry of, “You should have seen the one that got away!” Always hoping some mad leap or calm moment will make it come together and something impossible and real, some picture of life will appear.
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Salon Foxy on Goodie