i want my words to draw me closer to the meaning, no, to the soul, and only the soul, of art.

i write, i want to write: with the violence of colour, with the shadows of the present. the blackness and the contrasts, the same tenderness i feel when i sweep my charcoal across the page.

kiss

my pictures appear on white backgrounds. white means the possibility of all conceivable approaches. so what does it mean, what is created when i leave a drawing there, on the white?

i believe writing, the process of writing, is like painting. sluggish at first, forms waiting to be found. the censoring thoughts must be held in check. want?

what is this want? why this want?

purpose is left at the door.

where there is purpose, there is no creation.

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