Journal entry 12 January 2017
I find that I am questioning my art, my vision. For I don’t think that I have either. I think that I am a painter who draws with brushes and that I paint symbols of moments that move me. If these are seen to be illustrative, I do listen to this kind of critique… but I then ask myself whether I could do any different? Would the story of the moment be any different if I had applied any other technique at the time of creating? If I placed a focal point tree a little more to the side instead of straight slap-bang in the middle of the composition, would it have said more or less of what I needed it to say even though what most people will see is a tree in the middle of a canvas?
So I think about these things and I make decisions whether to listen or not. Generally, I do listen. Generally the opinions of artists I admire are taken very much to heart.
But this early morning, I have a skip in my brush and the stories and symbols must out. And I must paint them; the illustrative owls, the complexity of a tree, the depth of the ocean, the endlessness of a landscape.
And I must paint them as if I am new to them… like a first lover when the body is still very much a mystery and a surprise.
I am a painter of these things I love.
That is all.