Today I’m rushed. I have a deadline. I don’t have the time I really would like to give my paintings. I have a show planned for May. Yet my mind is calm as I get into the paint. I begin my dance with brush and panel. I settle into the familiar and delicious feel of the paint as I mix the colors with my brush. I feel the indescribable contentment that comes from the oneness I have with my materials. I find the forms of my observed subject as I apply stroke after stroke. An unconscious rhythm evolves and I hope the result will be the creation of something that has meaning for at least one other person.
5000 miles away a mother weeps for her dead son. A daughter prays for her injured father. Friends grieve their common loss. Beasts of destruction congratulate themselves. (I have a friend who tells me “evil does not exist”. I don’t understand this notion.)
Today I rush, painting as fast as I can in a kind of controlled desperation. I live in my calling. Tomorrow I might be dead.