18 x 14 inches
Oil and cold wax
Thinking about my life without art is like looking down a dismal corridor of despair.
I travel impossible miles when I paint, trying to get back to those few precious moments before I was molded in the clay of language; before my ego became conscious, making judgments and corrections in my thoughts and behaviour.
So, who am I? Not what my parent and teachers told me. No, I am not that. I am more than that. And it is that which I try to put on the canvas. Traveling back to the nuclear core of my soul, spirit, intuition.
The cacophony of visible reality plays like an obstacle field filled with mental grenades designed to fragment my core. Dancing between these and staying true to "me" is the challenge.
Being born is an act of creative abstract expression - coming out of the womb, there is no language, there is barely sight, only I imagine, fear, confusion and perhaps some anger. And yet the urge to leave the santuary of warmth and plummet ourselves here is not a choice, but a demand of life.
We forget and lose that newborn innocence. As we begin to understand and make sense of the world around us, through the eyes and words of others, we give up that beautiful nothingness we brought with us.
Getting back to that is primal expressionism.