Through an open window pane, I traveled the world over again. Mountains and deserts, hills and valleys, I saw it all. The confused chaos of New York and the dusty quiet of Birmingham, I saw with clarity. Every silent teardrop, every thundering heartbeat.
Through it all, I see a story that needs to be told. In seeing, I heard. Nothing in this world is mundane. In a shard of green broken glass I hear the stumbling cry of the child whose only crime was to drop his father’s Heineken. The train’s lonely whistle tells of an insecure teenager escaping the confines of an oppressive home. A hundred voices call to me, ringing with the cries of their hearts. Desperation, joy, sorrow, rage, anticipation… they all have a voice.
I traveled the world, never leaving my room. I traveled, and I saw much. Then I returned, and began to piece together the bits of story that I’d heard.
Sound is only one angle of expression, singled out of the five senses. Yet, they all correspond with the heart, telling the story that we all share. We live, we breathe it, and we see it every day- but do we hear it?
And so I paint. Every story, every word that is said, finds itself into a fragmentation of colors that bleed onto my pure canvas. The brush speaks the cry of a thousand hearts, repeats their story in a flood of pigment that stains the page.