There is a foolishness in fearing creativity. And yet it lives in the hearts and ends of critics. My mom used to joke about me blue period and then my nudes. I remember thinking “she noticed me.” So how that slolwy his clouded as I read reviews of other artists. As I reach new peaks I fear the sunlight but I will climb either way.
I just added a bunch of my new paintings to my online store. Long live the climbers.
Something to be said about fear and fearlessness. They both motivate but in very different ways.
The soul of my brush is fearless but the hands are human. They question the motions. All I can do is giv einto the brush. So many paintings painted up inside me, waiting for a canvas to scream into.
You kind of have to fuck the fear off the hand with paint. I know that sounds insane a little or a lot. Nothing ever gained in my life was because it was given. I walked with wieghts in the water to get here. I fucked up my hands to get here. It just meant more to me than sleep or even madness.
The road to fearless painting is marked on caves inside of scared memories. The passion was and is alwasy there. That why I say “always making”. I make in my sleep , in conversations and even while I eat.
My journey into the dark started with colors. The dark I speak of is my mind. Painter has this quality to it that lets you make what ever you can dream up; so you have to challenge your self to look so deep in yourself that you hit bottom every time. I build pathways to the sea bed back to the surface and then plant seeds for new concepts. It leaves me swollen and scared in a good way. Plant a tree and feed a forest. The roots are strong and powerful but not meant to last longer then a few lifetimes of paintings. Maybe a few hundred paintings and then a new tree has to be planted on top of it. Madness, beautiful madness.