The Art Makes the Artist
Every time I paint I have a unique experience. Light at eleven in the morning looks and feels quite different from that at three thirty in the afternoon. When light changes, it affects other things, such as color. Then there’s my mood, which in turn influences how I perceive and process the world. Any number of things can happen. A brush may fail. A tube of paint might break. The random migration of birds, wind, and nagging doubts could distract my focus.
Sometimes, when I feel I’m painting well, desire and ego surface and begin to muddy the waters. On other occasions, when the painting flows, there’s a sense of balanced, respectful coexistence between harmony and chaos. As well as a renewed faith in the process that transforms blank canvas into desirable image. The way I see it, I don’t make the art. The art makes me. And I’m grateful for it.
If I wake in the morning thinking about my painting, there is hope.
