It’s rare for me to do a painting that doesn’t have its own story or – more accurately – a moment of a story. My favorite are the moments, barely noticed by others, that herald a change. They’re the moments when we suddenly realize what hadn’t occurred to us before, when we finally say ‘yes, that’s what I want or am,’ when we step all the way into our lives.
What’s even more rare is for me to tell anyone what the story actually is, not because I’m so coy and precious about it (although it might look that way), but because people will have their own story and there’s no point getting in the way of that.
It’s a practice not without difficulties. More than once, I’ve forgotten what the original story was. Happily, I don’t seem to be bothered (except a little. In the same way I’m bothered when I can’t find the other sock).
There’s no point being bothered, not when there’s an endless supply of stories and even more story moments that want to be brought to life. Maybe their life will be very short and read only by me, but I don’t care.
I don’t care because it’s fun.