My painting process has changed dramatically. I am out of control inspired, fiercely brave – ready to knock out blank space with an uber-alive mark. I sustain that pumped focus for fifteen hours straight, for days on end. Most of my career (age 16 to 40) I have worked up, and on entire exhibitions at once, paintings spread out over my studio, all at different stages of completion, different mediums, different sizes, on floor, wall and table. On a ferocious mission for the space, my mind, my hands, the images to all sing together. Exhausted I hear it and sleep so deeply satisfied and with paint on my skin.
What irreverent fire hides behind these eyes of mine. Wet images take shape and lay in my studio, my secret, my soul, my great love, my mind and the obedience of my body as tool with steady stamina.
And now at 42 I still have the power, the fortitude but I am no longer a loose cannon. Now I hold the energy a while, I understand what paint can do, how it behaves and what it means a little now. I work in smaller spurts. I know I could flood the East Village with paintings but I also know my affair with creative energy is endless. I do not want to run and go bezerk with it anymore, I want to sit with it, be it and act on it in calm, contemplative form.
Gone seem to be the days of being overwhelmed and besotted with mark making; now I have steady love.