an urge. an action. losing oneself.
the question: why am i doing this?
to open up. to exist beyond the instant hit, to be free, to leave causalities behind. to find new pathways for art, for painting. places where art can do something. in hospitals it can accompany the lonely, give them something to lean on and carry them to worlds far away from pain and disability.
art, what is art?
intensity and truthfulness.
intensity, intensity means giving yourself over to colour or form, fully. the colours expand, the brushstroke drifts across the page.
red flows over the paper, forms puddles, a map of emotion, i need only be able to see it. the brushstroke gives shape to something recognisable, allows the colour its space and plays out its own story and elation. yet it also reacts to the colour, and the colour to it.
where does the difference between painting and the written word lie?
the word clings to my spirit. everyone thinks they can understand. i write to be understood. i censor all moments of simple blabla, of screaming with words, of clashes and big, inky black fanfare.
i am stuck in a word that has been used and used a gazillion times before. the text, moulded from witty references. uuuupsss summm techniko tratra rattattum. schwitters, jandel: the intellectual space is limited no matter what i write.
the colour, a new one every time, and every time a new shadow unfolding on the paper in a manner so surreal.
censorship happens in the mind, but the eye and curiosity are free.
painting is like dreaming. it makes sense, is logical in its place, as long as we don’t try to rationalise it.
bang, the dream is over and i am awake. one last attempt to put the scraps of last night into words. hurry, hurry. with every tenth of a second i wait, whole chapters of dream material disappear forever.
painting means sleeping, or dreaming.
or, wait, no, living with art, contemplating pictures, stepping into these worlds made real – that is comparable to dreaming.
in dreams there is no why.