Is there an explanation for all this nonsense?
Deep in the bottom of my soul, I think there are spots and lines and crazy shapes. Whenever I pick up a brush or a pen, they're there, talking to me, jumping in my face, insisting on being there. When the colors and lines blend, there is always a story, always a feeling. This one has hills and valleys, a big wide space that suggests its own universe. No, I'm not a conscious artist who plans and knows what is coming. It doesn't happen that way, but my eyes keep seeking a balance, a jolt, a reflection of life. It's not done until it gets to the point where it has an integrity of its own. That may not make any sense to anyone but me, but there it is.
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