On Being Alive

The best way I know how to express things is to write, or paint. But sometimes you just don’t know what it is you want to say, so finding the words is difficult. That’s when it’s great to be able to turn to painting – a blank sheet of paper and a brush in hand, an open mind and a willingness to make something happen, to say something – even if you don’t know what that entails.

Painting often leads to words anyway, for me. The title of this painting – ‘Seven Ages of Me’ occurred to me halfway through, and suddenly I knew what it was saying. Not quite mystery solved, but rather mystery signposted.



‘Seven Ages of Me’


It gets addictive, this sort of painting. Or is it that I just wasn’t finished? I think so! In between these two paintings, a weekend of weirdness happened –  two days of just feeling wrong, off, out of balance, and with illness descending on the household, too much busyness, unsuccessful shopping trips, too many moments of disconnect and crossed wires. All part of being alive I expect. I wasn’t sure how to turn it to good, so this morning yet again, another blank page, a newly washed brush (or 6). And paint.


This one turned into a painting about love.



And its title just came: ‘The way the moon pulls me will always divide us’.


‘The way the moon pulls me will always divide us’


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