My paintings are my souvenirs from an Italian Summer of warmth and sweetness. I'll tell you what I saw:
Jagged fingers. There is a foot on his head. Eyes are glazed almonds and lips are from a frog. There’s a recession before the chin and then it juts out into a hill. One woman’s hands are like shovels scooping up a newborn, but another has a slight frame, with fingers like needles. A baby is a loaf of bread. That baby is so long and that one is shrunken. Rosy fingered dawn. A sheep is an angel and a dove is on fire. A book and a sword/ sword through a head. Stigmata. Light. Heaven.
I thought about the metals and dirt and bugs it took to make these paintings. I thought about how many eyes had stared back at theirs. I laughed sometimes walking through the halls. A dove was on fire.
It all meant something. The forms, the gestures, the colours. They are books without words. They stick in my mind and in my photos. I take them home with me. They become something else.