There is a reason I tend to choose abstract painting as my main mode of expression: because I don’t have to articulate what I’m trying to say. Who cares, right? The point is for the viewer to feel something. Once I release my work into the world, I can’t reclaim the original sentiments. I know what I felt when creating it, but overtime the certainty of my motivation fades and now the colours rely on the eyes of others to attach value.
But, I’ve made the attempt to seek out language to accurately convey the odd thought process that can sometimes occurs when I put paint down.
Everything starts in the same spot: what feels like me noiselessly screaming. These hushed sounds come out as red, and then an onset of horrific body shaking, fall-to-my-knees tears trickle down as blue, turning purple when it meets my soundless cry on the canvas. The intersection is a brief moment of clarity, joy if you will, where I don’t feel like my skin is crawling and my mind isn’t distracted by things out of my control. In an instant, my forceful thoughts are abstracted, stretching out across a flat visible surface; it’s all proof that those floating indefinite emotions and unclear recollections are factual. I then add white, almost in an attempt to erase the truth because who would believe me? White. Not symbolic of a clear head or heart, more so a lack of veracity. I suddenly feel dishonest and want to cover-up the mess I’ve made. These brush strokes, it’s me feeling like am empty vessel traipsing the Earth in search of meaning. Then, a splash of orange because it makes me smile and why not add on a cool off green hue, because in that soothing colour my centre holds firm. It brings me back down, grounding my senses in reality, and I no longer feel shame.
Finally, gold, because I want to believe that it does not have to go.