Breaking Through

It is time

To usher in a new beginning

As the dusty clock


Beneath the blue sky of

Vigorous recognition

Things do not stand still

And is not too late

Standing stark


In front of that


Untouched canvas

In a strange space of stasis

A zone where time and thought

Temporarily stand still

Where there is nothing there will
soon be something

But like our path in life I will
be in control to only a certain degree

The process of starting a new
painting is a truly existential, philosophical, empowering, egotistical,
nonsensical thing. 

A concept of creation
can be abstract, joyous, inspiring and bewildering.

Normally, if not always, I have no
true idea of what I am going to paint. 
The entire process is reliant upon my past experiences, my memories, my wealth
of deep-seated regrets and my blind optimism for future events.  All of those events cascade and bombard in
efficacy together, gradually imagining themselves into a story on the

I have been writing, sketching,
singing and observing for many, many years now. 
Gazing out of the window half way up the stairs as a boy, walking the
streets of Paris drinking wine and eating salad niçoise and looking out of the
window of bars and bistros in my 20s; sitting in parks and in hotel rooms
wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.  What do I want? How can/dare I write? How can
I paint?  I can’t even draw! I have
always being compelled to do so. To keep creating, to keep trying, keep
working, keep thinking. 

To endure through oil on canvas despite all the other
many rudimentary episodes that rise and fall around us.

Somehow, in some way after so many
failures, trials; errors; small victories and steady glories all begin to fuse
and assemble into a voice that is uniquely yours.  The streets I’ve walked, the strangers who’s
lives I’ve passed, the bars and scrapes that I’ve been in, the women I’ve
loved, the friends I’ve loved all over the world; the joys that have laughed
vigorously from the cavern of my belly, the tears that have rolled thickly down
my cheeks. They all come together subliminally onto blank pages and coarse,
empty canvasses. 

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