There’s a rumbling in my core when I need to paint. If I ignore the call, I suffocate slowly and sink to an untimely death like an ant in thick treacle. This sounds melodramatic but ask my housemates or former lovers, I am hell to live with when I am fermenting sour unexpressed passion.
When this finally erupts I intently stalk my surrounds for canvas, brushes, linseed oil and a pile of rags to mop up spills, stained hands and footprints on the carpet. There is nothing like it. Putting my hands in clay is joyful, stalking through the bush barefoot to capture kangaroos on my SLR is fun and writing alternates between block and flow, both being rather obsessive but compulsive. However everything is pedestrian in comparison to the witching cauldron of the brush dipped in titanium, cadmium and cobalt.
i am posting a painting that erupted like hot magma when I was living in France. To illustrate my point, the heart was torn and then reconstructed in an act of faith, as was mine. Today new works are glistening wet in the alcove that separates my volcanic activity from the concentrated geophysics of El Eco’s academic endeavours and the peaceful landscape of New Housemate’s domain. Sometimes the noise is too much to bear. Sometimes the sun is too bright. But Passion Exists.