I think of these small paintings like toy treasure chests. The golden contents might only be costume jewellery and chocolate money, but it doesn’t matter. It looks real, and we can indulge in make-believe. Most images could seem foolish, or profound, depending on how you look at them.
We chart our way with images: I am this, you like that, they went there. Flying these little flags of self, we signal to each other from our lifeboats, thirsty for love, hungry to be seen, exhausted, up and down the swells. Perhaps in being seen, we imagine we can ward off death, which hides in the dark waters beneath us.
All I can think is this: it’s ok to take comfort in images. The millions of fleeting smiles are achingly vulnerable. We might as well enjoy the play of light in the sky, or in a painting. We shouldn’t be ashamed of sweetness. Our only genuine luxury is time, and we don’t have much.