I draw and I paint. This is one of the ways that I interact with my surroundings. Painting is how I ask and answer the big questions in life. It’s how I pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming. It’s how I experience beauty (whatever that is). Painting gives me permission to stare; To look at something longer and harder than anyone else has looked at that subject as it exists now; To take it in and filter it through my mind, through my body, and out of my hand. Painting is intimate. And intimacy is powerful. It’s the connection that we all crave. I’m talking about intimacy with our self, with our surroundings, and with each other. It is what most of us are lacking to some degree, and what we are, unknowingly, desperately seeking.
I paint mountains. I paint oceans, I paint animals, and I paint skies. I paint outdoors, I paint inside, I paint in the day, and I paint at night.
And also, I paint women. They are the yin. They are the moon, the keepers of the feminine. Because of this, they are special. We are different and complimentary. We are separate and forever bonded. I want to know what they are. But I can never know, so I paint. And like painting is intimate, so to is being painted. The connection. A revelation and a glimpse into the secret world of her. She whose figure has lines and rhythms that are perfect in the ways that sunsets are perfect, in the ways that starry skies, snow peaked mountains, and turquoise oceans are perfect. She lends me a keyhole to peak through. And she knows that I see her. The muse tells secrets. She is proof of something, but I don’t know what.
This whole thing isn’t so much about a relationship between the artist and the viewer, although it is that too. It is fundamentally laugh out loud astonishment at existence. It’s appreciation beyond words.
The world is opening up and I am taking it in. There is a communication happening. It knows it’s being watched. Blink once for yes. Another gem. The artist sees more in what others see as “regular” things. But there is nothing regular about any of this. The more I look, the more I see, so even harder I look, and the deeper I see; Into the rabbit hole it just keeps going…
And to a man with a brush, everything looks like a painting.
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