People have asked me why I don’t paint consistently pleasant subjects that would make me a respectable living, but I would have no idea of where to find the fuel to move my arm. The same applies to copying or repeating my more commercial work.
I dislike exhibiting my work, although I do get talked (or shamed) into it occasionally.
In the back of my mind I have felt a strong urge for keeping most of my drawings and paintings together, then as soon as the idea of a book without words came to mind it all clicked into place. On some level my paintings do belong together, separated it felt like giving my heart to one my soul to another and generally scattering bile, entrails, hope and faith all in an incomprehensible deal like a game of cards.
The book idea was like a revelation (In my small world). Like the inspiration for all my drawing and painting in one burst. A book without words or numbers even names would not be necessary. I could remember the emotions and compose the images so that passages of light and dark, drama and calm could be read as a whole.
The fact that everyone regardless of ability or language can appreciate it equally is of immense satisfaction to me.
To watch people of the highest intelligence and education puzzling over it with knitted brow appeals to the sneakily anarchistic fragment in me, also the simplistic child in me is chuffed to allow them to experience the difficulties that I do with Dostoevsky.
The emotionally puzzled in me wonders how and why?
The respectfully spiritual side of me hopes that it will impart an uplifting, positive note.back more