silent series
There are several factors and ingredients that make up a painting: time, water, state of mind, and materials.
I can’t predict how long a painting will take. It can’t be too fast, because that feels like I’m not fully engaged in the process. On the other hand, if a painting takes too long, it feels forced. There is the in-between time when a painting needs to dry before I add another layer. There is the time I live a life and collect (visual) experiences; colors, shapes, textures. Eventually, some of those memories will find their way onto the canvas.
Water is my friend and my secret collaborator. I surround and immerse myself in it whenever possible, living near the ocean.
I run watered-down paint over the canvas and observe its flow, sometimes manipulating it, sometimes not. The brush splashes itself onto the canvas, or I rub, massage, caress the canvas with watercolor to disrupt, enhance, change the information (color, shapes, layers) that is already there. If I let them, the pools of water paint themselves.
I have to be in the right frame of mind, or rather, I can’t be too far off. Often, it takes time to reach this flow, but once I’m in it, hours turn into days, days into weeks, and everything falls into place. It can’t be forced, it can’t be practiced (although it is, of course), it’s either there or it’s not. It is a constant search for authenticity and a willingness to stay open. And it is both exhausting and exhilarating.
Painting is so simple it only requires acrylic paint, canvas, a one-dollar brush, and sometimes objects that catch my eye scattered around my studio. It could be a plastic lid, a piece of wire, or a paper towel soaked in paint.
At some point, something magical has to happen. I can’t really put my finger on it or articulate how to perfect that stroke. I don’t think about it; I react to it, I feel it.
It is about capturing a fleeting moment without hesitation.
It is about a willingness to engage visually.
My garden is wild and chaotic, with many plants thriving and others not so much. I’ve moved the banana plant ten feet to another spot, and now it’s the tallest plant in my garden, towering over everything else. I water once a week – not too much, really. Weeding, pruning, hauling, and sometimes no work at all. Yet, in the midst of this chaos, there is always beauty that captivates me, along with the madness, the lack of a plan and its creation. This is how I perceive my art– a constant debacle of happiness.