I put a canvas board on my easel and squeezed paints on my palette, yellows and reds, and white and blue. I wanted fire, and light. I wanted radiance and prisms of violet. I mixed the paint with a knife and then, frustrated, pulled on rubber gloves to mix directly with my hands. I had no idea what form I wanted, but I wanted these colors, this radiance, the mingling and unexpected eruptions of light. I transferred the paint onto the canvas with my hands, massaging deeply, delicately, shaping memories of love, of warmth, of luminous violet rays pouring in and in, and through. Oil on canvas, oil on flesh. I wanted to press myself into the colours and be daubed, dressed thickly in pollen and sky-blue and the blood-flushed pink of lips and tongues drinking the glorious immediacy of life. But the board was flat, this was symbol only and I was groping through the confusions of time. Why paint at all, then, when I could just take off my clothes and roll in the earth and the flowers, when river water and sunlight and the ripples of wren-song could speak to me and I could understand? I thought of Finn, and then of Kate. I must paint because I must share my vision and hope that one such as she might recognize the way-signs and portents, that through my creation the magical helpers would reach out hands and hearts and help them through to that place, that secret grotto, those lands adventurous where the Horn of the Joy or the Holy Grail could be recognized, grasped and known. - playing with paragraphs from Skeleton Woman, by me, moments when Roisin is painting.
Posted on: Wed, 01 Oct 2014 06:37:20 +0000
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