A painting can be a page on which to examine and maybe disrupt the syntax of thought: 

the pink is coming going looking, the yellow could be said to be going nowhere preening. 

If reading is dark, I mark to sense. 

Thinking comes before making then comes through form, fragments "using themselves, not depicting." The site of a swerve or a fold, the force of an edge that looks as if no hand made it. Something clean-edged asserts and later a shadow, shaky, body-based, cast by its own interior.

The picture is not the wish -- wish, so light a word it hardly stays on the page where it is written, the place beyond which words become limit. 

September 2020