mystery people
I wish it happened more often. Sometimes when I am putting down layers of paint, scraping away layers of paint, serendipity strikes.. A rudimentary form -- disheveled, sometimes downright dilapidated, a figure -- reveals itself. A being who was here all along. Just hidden by my original intention. It's like a sculptor locating the angel within a piece of marble, except in this case the angel finds me.
These figures are my "mystery people." They strike me as vaguely familiar, perhaps having approached me, timidly, on tiptoe, at the edge of my dreams. They're quiet. They whisper hints of things to come. They beguile me and offer me hope. Best of all, they inform me of the direction a painting wants to go. Their presence assures me that each moment is open to something much larger than me.
