A painting is like a thin veil, hanging suspended between me and the unknowable. As I peer through this veil, I can glimpse reality in softened, reduced tones, artfully selective, brutally reductive.
The world itself is veiled from us. We exist on a curtained stage, enacting our self-important roles as we pursue our imaginary dreams. Birth and death are the violent partings of this curtain, beyond which we know nothing.
Life is full of paradox. We invent what we see. We desire what we don’t have. We believe what we can’t know.
Painting embodies this paradox. The veil of the painting protects me, its thousands of small brush strokes weaving something out of nothing. The act of painting lends meaning to my existence, even as I try to efface myself behind this shimmering illusion.
A painting is like a thin veil, hanging suspended between me and the unknowable. As I peer through this veil, I can glimpse reality in softened, reduced tones, artfully selective, brutally reductive.
The world itself is veiled from us. We exist on a curtained stage, enacting our self-important roles as we pursue our imaginary dreams. Birth and death are the violent partings of this curtain, beyond which we know nothing.
Life is full of paradox. We invent what we see. We desire what we don’t have. We believe what we can’t know.
Painting embodies this paradox. The veil of the painting protects me, its thousands of small brush strokes weaving something out of nothing. The act of painting lends meaning to my existence, even as I try to efface myself behind this shimmering illusion.