If I think about the universe, and what science tells us, life as we conceive of it appears almost infinitely rare. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t meditate on what I see as the utter rarity of this human condition, or if I am to speak more inclusively, this life condition. I am unable to take for granted, at least for very long, that we are beings complete with consciousness, an ability to sense beyond ourselves, and to communicate our impressions. If we distinguish ourselves from the inanimate, we as conscious entities form but mere micro-specks within the vast milieu of non-living material and empty space. What are the odds? To me, this suggests the miraculous.
Painting, while it may cover much ground in terms of what energies go into the process, ultimately brings me back to this phenomenon. So at various points during the painting’s development, I find cause for celebration. After all, how is it that I am me? During such moments, I see myself operating as both creator and observer, somehow in charge of the painting’s orchestration, but never more than a step ahead of the painting itself. The painting has a life of its own, and I feel like only a catalyst at key moments during its development. When I am satisfied with a piece and consider it complete, I find myself more as witness than owner, as though the spirit of the image continues to pulse just beyond grasp.