The need to make art is a curious thing. It started, for me, early in life, as a constant looking. A vague but persistent visual greediness. This was accompanied by an overwhelming need to make something with my hands.
I paint because I am driven to do so.
Tracking down the driver, even though I know it resides in me has never been entirely successful. It is mostly a one-way conversation, although occasionally I offer a suggestion. Then we have an argument which is sometimes very loud. I scrape, repaint and then wonder when I will be able call it a wrap, standing for hours in paint covered clothes trying to make sense of it all. Am I trying to explain something to myself or is it an excavation? Pentimento? In a painting, fragments of the previous painting, showing where the artist has changed her mind. The word comes from the Italian word for repent. Pintirisi. So many layers, always a figure and a love affair with paint.