There is a painfulness that seems to accompany most of my work. If you are a painter, you most likely know this process. It�s this journey between mind and canvas, that moves through your arm, into your hand and creates something where there was once nothing. That magical point between the tip of the brush and the weave of the cotton. I admire the street artists, who for a fee, will paint in a matter of carefree strokes, whatever it is that meets the eye. I long for that freedom. For me, the process always seems to be a bit more complicated. I have to work for it. I have to pull it out like a painful shard of glass stuck somewhere deep inside. So painful that I rarely, if EVER paint in front of someone. It�s too vulnerable.
This work, for whatever reason, wanted to come out. There was no pulling. There was no hiding. She started without a brush, formed from medium worked between finger tips and palms. I felt her arrive as if I was feeling her in a dark room for the very first time. Each curve, forever memorized, emerged into space. A knowing that existed before time. Her energy, my energy�your energy, neither created nor destroyed, it cannot be diminished.
Seven chakra�s move about her. Each separate, yet flowing freely throughout on the wind that is her breath. To me, she is light. She is bliss. She is complete.
A reminder in these times, of all that I am.
Of all that we are.
March 16th, 2017
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