To paint
is like a ritual for me.
It is the laying bare of myself.
Standing in or opposed to a surface, a space, a ground, on which to communicate and extend my being onto.
My gesture, my mark, my emotion, my thought.
It is the soft caress or sometimes over eager
gushing of emotions, tearing out from inside of myself.
In the discourse of presence, happening right in-front of myself.
The discourse of me represented through colours, form structure, composition, and what unfolds for me to see.
Painting, like the moment of life.
Surrenderance to the structure, the surface, sometimes already having marks on it, coming in, to treasure what inspires me, what I still want to discover to find or what I want people to find inspiration in.
But in the end it is not about the other, it is just about you, about me, and that moment of being free.
Of allowing nothing else, but mixing and choosing colours, tracing form and textures intuitionally.
Nothing purer, this being, my kind of meditation.
Like life itself, every painting a surprise, showing the treasures you could have not known before they reveal themselves before your eyes.
That is even if abstract it is a presentation of more of the conceptual rather then realistic, but signifying a philosophy of being, a philosophy of approach to life.
A philosophy of engagement and embracing of the senses.
The other becoming me, and me becoming it.
With the caress of my whole body, even cuddling, dancing, and stretching, sitting, rolling, walking, or tracing on it.
The energy, candle to electric light, highlights and shadows,
the gestures of paint and without paint,
my eyes, my nose, the smell, the touch, the feel, the sound, of movement
of rhythm, of pattern of decision shaping the expressed landscape of my inside.
Free.
Landscapes which only exist ones, in the painting of me.