Color is the language of the poets. It is astonishingly lovely. To speak it is a privilege.
Seeing is such a privilege. Who notices the way the screech of a gull looks, the look of a gale, the sight of some fragrance?
A red apple isn't red, nor the lemon yellow. The sky is seldom blue, only when it isn't.
Anything can be any color at any time depending on what color everything else is at the time.
My problem is to bring together in a painting two seemingly conflicting, impossibly unmixable ideas. One is that the finished work shall evoke a sense of recognition, of the mysteriously familiar... the other is that in order to do the first I must deeply know my subject.
I must react selectively, contrarily, arbitrarily, perversely, and always with intensity directly from the subject.
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