compass
I put water on paper. I watch what happens. Sometimes I think I am a traveler, but one who does not know where he is going. The paper is my map. The paint, my footprints. There are days when everything aligns. My hand knows exactly where the brush must land. Other days, everything is wrong. Those are often the best days. Feeling is the only guide I have. You’re supposed to know what you’re doing. I do the opposite. I do, and then, perhaps, I know. The water dries. The world that was there is no longer there. Tomorrow, I begin again.
connection
What I do with my watercolors, and I don’t know if what I do is good, but I do it, is this: I make something that has no name. Not a tree, not a face, not a house. Only color that flows and dries and becomes something it was before it became anything at all.
sketch
I picked up a sketchbook. Not because I have to, not because I know what I’m going to make. I picked it up because, well, why, exactly? Because there is something that needs to be done. And then I begin. To paint, to seek, to let it happen.