Transformation
“What is to be done about these literary people, who will never understand that painting is a craft and that the material side of it comes first? The ideas come afterwards, when the picture is finished”
Transformation
The beautiful and the lazy, simple
And distant from ugly love.
Colour, dull, black and hot.
Amazing hate, white like facility.
A system here and startling
With inability and disorder.
Stop.
Quiet building of unorganized
Invisible dancing animals.
With dexterity, they adore manipulation
And despise where people controlled.
We are cool and go
Small and free,
Icy and seen.
Great
Complex
Work.
“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist when we grow up.”
I am here, in my studio, waiting, waiting, waiting for people to come visit. I feel uncomfortable that I need to talk about my art. That I’m being judged (or not). What are they seeing? Do they see what I see? My daughter’s farm and the animals hidden in the scritchy, scratchy marks on paper that I have left. The dot that went for a walk. The emotional baggage attached to a place that I work on. That I love because my horses are there. The wind and the fresh air (albeit fresh air and manure).
Do they see the images from Sicily? Do they recognize them as somewhere foreign? It’s not foreign to me. Sicily feels like home. I belong there. I crave the beautiful places and ancient ties to Greece, Rome, Carthage and Africa. I look at the Trinacria with Medusa’s head in the middle and I think there’s me. I’m her. She’s beautiful and deadly.
Grounded
Rooted
Deeply
Bottomless emotion
Bottomless love
Bottom less
Still rooted
Still growing
Still
Wild wet
Crashing, moving, impossible
Impossibly beautiful
Heart pounding
Wrenching
Surging
So much
So little
Impossible to(o)…