Art is a quest.Life is a quest. Getting out of bed is a quest. You have got to have a reason. Be it a salary, a career, a class to attend or teach, pride, ambition, and/or a host of abstract and damn practical motives, you do things for a mixture of pragmatic, ideological, faith-based considerations – work vs slacker ethic, etc.
Deep inside, some of us feel as if we have experienced a Visitation, a Calling, a Vocation.
The rough business at hand is for you to sort, clients to please, customers to satisfy, the opposition to appease or quell, relations to provide for – an endless list of chores dealing with persons and things which require intervention: yours, ours, mine.
Nothing comes from nothing.
Armed with self-belief, a faith in self, I am impelled to paint, trans-substantiate ideas, visions, dreams, a voice to form; alas, two-dimensional, but even in my sculptures of stone and driftwood, the third dimensions lacks the fourth and vital dimension: time.
It is in time, that we play out the scheme the Oracle has whispered to us, to me, an oracle I could easily choose to ignore – go to the cinema, read a book, meet with friends, real or otherwise; instead, the Oracle is by your side, whispers in your heart, holds a flame to your brackish mind, pushes you on, indeed wakes you in the middle of the night, or day, drags you from slumber, and you are compelled to create, draw, start painting before it is too late, before you rise no more, your duty forsaken, your calling ignored, the Oracle, here an fair attractive woman, transformed into a screaming Harpie, or a Medusa, but instead of your turning instantly into stone, she kindles you back to blood, bone and gut to torture you the more, holding the mirror to your face with you, and nobody else but you, to blame, to blame, to crucify.