When I’m really in it, when I’m just flowing, letting the painting happen, then I’m hardly aware of myself at all, or often even any preconceived notions of what the result “should” be . . . at some point I’m just holding the brush, and there’s an understanding that this, right now, whatever it is, is what needs to be happening, and so it is what’s happening. It’s like dancing, when you are in the flow of it, you aren’t thinking about how you look, you’re just moving with the music, with instinct and emotion, and that’s when you actually look good, when you aren’t trying to! When your brain gets in the way too much and you start thinking, people see that somehow. When you’re in flow, you just know you look good, it doesn’t matter what you are doing or if you’ve ever done it before, because it’s just perfect in this moment. And that’s what it’s like, dancing with the painting. With the smaller, “in flow” pieces, a lot of times I really don’t even have much of an intention for a final result when I start, I just let them happen, and then at some point it’s done, and there’s this beautiful, eternal record of the last however-many hours, evidence of a dance.
And I don’t mean to totally diminish the role of my brain in all of this, to imply that the art doesn’t need that part of me, too, it does. I couldn’t do what I do without both. A big painting is too complex, I need to step back and take it in, understand the next layer, the next dance that needs to happen. Because those—I’m not doing the same dance for three weeks or three months straight. That’s a lot of individual ones, each with their own present moments, layered one on top of the next, like the dances are dancing with each other. And there’s a different flow, a slower, patient one, that sits and feels through that, and figures out how to make them all play together, to harmonize. Maybe the yellow needs a little more pink in it, or a part needs a higher-frequency energy, or it should feel more like I’m falling into a vortex of flowers . . . It’s like the choreographer, making suggestions, guidelines. But when I get back to the canvas, the choreographer has to step back and let the dancer take over again—to give hints, but otherwise make the space for instinct, and the beauty that can only unfold in the immediate.
I believe in the transformative power of art, not necessarily to change the whole world at once, but that in recording those bursts of pure flow, it can act as a conduit of higher consciousness, can share that feeling, that freedom with another mind if it is willing to receive it. So it evokes change bit by bit, shifting moments that accumulate over time and add to our experience on this planet. This evidence of a dance is evidence of life. And that’s why it is beautiful to us, it’s a reminder—because we forget sometimes—that we aren’t just alive in some biological, or egoic way; we are ALIVE! And when we remember that, when we can really feel our own aliveness, this exact moment, in this exact body, is when we feel inspired and empowered to grow, and to dream.
" art that comes from a place of depth and sincerity really can move people; it can resonate with our spirits and communicate in a way that we don't fully comprehend."
" I believe in the transformative power of art, not necessarily to change the whole world at once, but that in recording those bursts of pure flow, it can act as a conduit of higher consciousness, can share that feeling, that freedom with another mind if it is willing to receive it."