Some days are like this. It’s strenuous to scribble words into sentences. We write them anyway.
In the process of searching for the words, and guiding them from my head to the page, the pictures arrive.
Maybe art is an external attempt to touch our deepest secrets, the secrets that we don’t even know are there.
I am incredibly grateful for the inspiring people who have brought me to insights I would have never arrived at on my own
Sometimes working with the stray marks and the brush strokes that go awry open us up to new creative possibilities.
Unhealthy render us unappreciative of our living particularities. Gratitude is a protest against the autocracy of comparison.
This is an attempt to get back to the dangerous ideas, and maybe that’s a dangerous idea in itself. I hope that it is.