In my work, I try above everything, above anything, to be honest.
This is kind of terrifying.
I try and make pieces that move me, because I want so desperately to move others. I ache to share, to know – it touched me, can it touch you too? Are we alike? In this, if in nothing else?
The art-works that I admire most have a kind of… courage to them. They would have taken balls. It is always the human form that calls to me thus, in love gasped or grief breaking.
We are all beautiful, the ugliest of us become tragedy, and form beauty by its physical absence.
It is for these reasons that humanity has become the subject of my attempts.
I am trying to be brave enough to find a kind of magical promise – A sketched line of tension in a raised palm of farewell… (almost alive, so close to alive; a story but still;)
A sharp thrill of sudden recognition the arc of a cheek lips barely parted and bitten fingers white strained tongue barely visible pressed against small white teeth.
Perfect knowing eyes imploring our own – and for a moment we share the image creature’s lust, her bliss, his agony.
The weight behind me feels like old stone driven to its shape; relentless and implacable.
After so long and so much and so long and so very much that has hurt me as each of us must hurt: with this paint I will try to tell you, I will try and find the courage to share with you. And perhaps you will see, and know, because of the deep scars that you wear upon your heart.
The skills to paint and draw are tools that I have earned, that I am fiercely proud of. Something that I love hard. I think, I hope that they matter. That part of what gives meaning to art is how hard-won the artwork is, how much it has cost for it to be forced into existence.
So I try, and I use them. Like nails, like teeth. I will never, and can never stop.
This has become, I admit, bloody-minded stubbornness.
I think that that’s ok, really… yeah.
It is. I will try to make beautiful things. I will try and make meaning. I must live with all that I have because living is all that I have.
It is wonderful! An ocean of choices that can be made beautiful by choosing well. Our time is our own.
I hope so hard that somewhere in this swarming, seething world of humankind I will I may I might share this wonder within me. That we exist at all. The stunning miracle of chance that we are.
How vehemently, how intensely happy I am that I ever occurred.