Reading this… Halfway through in one sitting and so much which resonates. I decided to write some of my own words, in a painterly way. It was the Vija Celmins quote which inspired me to do this.

‘I think there’s something profound, about working in material that is stronger than words, and is about some other place which is a little more mysterious.’

I feel stronger when communicating with paint than I do when using my words, so I reverse Celmins notion… The following ‘poems’, eight in total, if I could call them poems? They are my interpretations of painting intuitively with language. Automatic writing perhaps, not much thought , just rambling a bit. Took me a very short time to write after many hours reading quietly and thinking. It’s quite personal now I read it back, there is a truth in there.

1.

There are some explanations

In order to understand

We have to stand

Over the object

It’s not easy I guess

We have one world in which to understand everything

I go over this

Time again

It never helps

We have to try though don’t we?

2.

They sleep there in the room

Always beside me

In the end it helps

Their breathing

The smell

It’s not a long time we share

It’s very short

3.

I have a small window in which to see everything out of

I try to peer but my eyes are sore

Like as if I’ve rubbed oil into them

It’s a struggle

4.

There is a broken wheel at the end of the yard

It looks like its seen some things out there

On its travels up and down over and under

It now sits still forever

5.

There is gladness in this room

A broken past

Where things are changed and now are light and breathy

It is over…the time to be in turmoil over how to get away

I have this now

This thing which burns outward into my world here

It goes on and on

I don’t think I will ever feel a void again

6.

I have this place for when things are black and white, place of colour

Thank god for my sight

Very very blessed to be human

I have so much to be thankful for

But then there’s guilt for the others

7.

Over there is the outside, where the sky ends over the horizon

Its where there is expectation and surprise all at once

There is not a thing to see but everything to expect

It’s always the promise of something there without being there at all

I have a small place to see this from where I sleep and its dry outside

The cold is like heat over the red sky and the door is not open for everyone who sees it

I only hope for others

They’re not so lucky

8.

I like that thought

The one about the paint being better than words

So here are words and they seem to be good also

On the notes of music sit the colours of expression