I paint a picture so that I can see what I’m painting; it’s a paradoxical notion, but it makes sense. Here’s where we delve into the mystery of change, the reflection and the reflected, the magician who transmutes matter and precepts into visions. I select my tools carefully. Poetry is read like an invocation, employing the creative imagination to call up or create the magical reality within the poem itself; it is real and true as it is mused upon or spoken, a lasting pebble, active when we hold it and touch it. So too is a painting. We look, and we look at our reflection. Even when we take our eyes away, something remains within us, a conversation, a reflection, magic. So when I paint a figure, or decide upon a colour, or an aesthetic, or a vision, or a subject, or a setting, it is to set a scene in which the mind can wander and look for things, where the artist and the viewer can see things that they did not realize were put there by them, reflections of something outside themselves.
A sequence of pictures with poems and musings: