I paint directly onto the canvas: I don’t sketch first. I like to build structure with color.
I relinquish notions of absolute truth while intentionally working to disrupt the established. It is through this process, that an adjustment takes place, culminating in an agreement composing differences.
My painting then becomes the act, or process, of settling an inner argument, or disagreement, with my notion of reality as it has been routinely accepted by me. A flux occurs, creating a progressive version of ‘reality’, and a region is newly settled within the confines of the canvas.
A new form of communication and environment crystallizes within an original form of perception and pleasure.
I awake from a dream holding onto Julie with my arms wrapped around her waist. I’m saying that my Mum is just wanting to buy as much time as possible before she dies of cancer.
In this dream I see a leopard print jacket with a candy pink, pink bow, at the top of the neck – who’s touching my clothes?
The walk to Ambleside is littered with abandoned logs.
A collage collects along the low granite wall where the seams of blacktop meet with the rock.
The wind presses forcefully against me like a new lover. It takes all my strength to walk forward into it.
The clouds spit at me and a crow sprays white splotches across my black umbrella.
I leave the library on my way home with three heavy books curled into my arm none of which I want to read when I get home.
My Mother’s apartment building shivers in cold grey as I walk by. I let the wind pull my hair across my eyes so I don’t have to look into the dark empty windows where she once resided in warm lighting.
I tell myself all along that nothing matters but the feeling of being under twelve today and noticing how connected I am to all of nature as I walk home in fluctuating weather conditions.
Once inside I put on something warm, wipe the bird doo from my umbrella and brew bancha tea. I ignore the days’ old rinsed dishes and the clean laundry waiting to be put away. I can’t scrub a sink or address an envelope right now. I turn the ringer off on the phone, and relax into nothing.
Dream 2 – Excerpt from My Journal – October 6th, 2007.
Across the railway tracks I see Simon, our caretaker, at the top of the telephone pole that stands there. He is carefully wrapping a large piece of white cotton muslin over the top area of the pole; left over right – right over left. We exchange short conversation as the frosty-wet, misty, sleety atmosphere contains us. He says, “The most important things are to: meet, greet, eat, in life.” We smile and laugh, and I go back inside the Seastrand at our east entrance, near Pauline’s suite. – The end –