Relax, smell the paint, pull out a few old pictures, perhaps some words.
Place the paint, the papers, the water where each wants to go. Try not to think too much, but go with the music, the memory of a forgotten time, the way the air smelled near the lake circled with pines. Is this art? Or a new form of visual poetry. The poet in us is shy. It needs quiet, time, and trust that it will be heard with respect.
Painting has become my mantra, my mindfulness, my prayer. I coax the unknown to rise up from my depths, show itself as I juxtapose the materials. My subconscious is where the stories lie. I cannot invent them, I allow them to come to the surface and speak.
When art connects with the viewer there is a universal acknowledgement, an emotion we share. We are more alike than different. This is my success as an artist. I work to keep the conversation open.