From movement to stilness to life again


There are moments when I crave to be alone to create something.
It becomes a sort of dance. First I surround myself with old, discarded objects – such as those you often find in bins. Then I enjoy reviving them, giving them a second chance of life. By casting cement in wooden boxes, I half sink the objects into the mix, so only the top surface juts out. I have not time to think. I must act swiftly. The cement sets quickly. And then there is no more changing the arrangement. No space for the mind to come into the picture. That’s my favorite meditation– when no one’s around, nor out nor in. Time and space take a different meaning, or, no meaning at all.
A profound silence befalls my heart, and then flows deep into my work.
Boxes becomes drop boxes.

Other times I pile on layers upon layers of materials until the result agrees with and satisfies my vision.
Creating doesn’t start, as most people presume, before an empty space to be filled with shapes and colours. For me, it begins when I’m walking about and either a pebble, a leaf, or piece of wood or just any old thing calls out to me, begging to be reconsidered, to be brought back to life again.
That’s how, for instance, a round hallowed out stone can host a piece of driftwood that’s been moulded and polished by the strength of the sea, to become the hub of wreaths of dancing dry leaves: a kind of autumn symphony.
A weathered glass bottle split itself in a picture and in the 3D image: a playful game where so called reality and imaginary depiction are hard to distinguish.
A battered Italian coffee-percolator adorned by a golden dress spills over a fake plastic-coffee spurt.
A wooden sphere and cone, along with a rusty old sickle against an azure background become a fairy tale scenario.

At a certain point, as in the past, when the canvas was too limiting a space, even the boxes becomes too narrow and objects start overflowing over the edges: branches, roots, bits and bobs pop up and out, trying to reach for life, for the sky, ultimately for the one who is looking at them.
Artist is not only the creator, but also the one who can see with innocent eyes, with a child-like curiosity. Art can be seen in a stain, in a wall crack, in a crushed flower, or in a trodden leaf. Art is that wrinkle, that betters conventional beauty, on a grizzled old face.

There has been a period when I has been attracted by black – evoking silence, space, depth – and gold – an invitation to melt and merge with “another”.
Then came off-white and, despite appearances, it fascinated me with its infinitely rich breadth shades and nuances. In its apparent simplicity lies the most colorful of gradations.
I also started mixing and matching techniques and materials: oil and water pigments, wax, lacquer, shellac, pitch, sand and much more.
Experimentation is the only constant in a never ending work-in- progress.
Worthy ideas can spring to life even by failing an attempt to combine substances.
Relaxation and excitement come hand to hand, in a carnival of joy.

I wish I could transmit a glimpse of the loving passion that drives my work, through the visual impact of images, more then my words can do.