Peregrinations and Other Paintings 2018
To draw a line on canvas. A pencil I use. A marker. A brush. Whatever. An open line. Or a closed line. But the line must never intersect itself. The hand traveling with minimal mental control. The wandering of the line on the canvas. Soon the mind’s heart perceives the line as the wandering of life in time. Never intersecting. No two moments identical. The path, sometimes straight – immeasurably more often contorted and meandering, taken in search of meaning. Not waiting by a forlorn tree for Godot. Searching. Searching. For a meaning to existence.
Now, at last, studying the completed line. Inquiring. Questioning. Wondering. Retracing the steps. Erasing. Redrawing. Not completely erasing. An impossibility. Here and there still visible the traces of the previous paths. What is. And glimpses of what was.