Painter. Homeopath. Writer.
Three practices.
One way of seeing.
Behind each of these practices lies a single intention: to distill the essence of something until it becomes medicine for the soul.
Every painting begins as an encounter with something living, appearing out there, yet revealing itself within.
The practice is one of sustained attention. Open curiosity. Listening.
Remaining in relationship until what first appears outside is recognised within.
The mind isn't involved. It's all a visceral reaction. Sometimes I'll stand in front of the canvas and feel nervous — not at what I might paint, but at the unsteadiness of it. The plane, the container of everything, is slightly out of balance.
A single mark of yellow, or aquamarine, or cobalt blue, can steady the whole frame. I breathe out, not knowing I was even holding my breath, and the painting is ready to go deeper, willing for the next layer.
As it deepens, I get lost. Or rather, I stay lost. You don't know where you are in the painting. Certainly not in the mind. If I find myself thinking, I stop. I walk away. The whole point is to enter the unknown. If I think I know, I've slipped into an old way of seeing. I'm wrong.
The painting becomes the trace of that encounter. A place where something forgotten can be remembered.