Whispers.

There’s something happening at the studio.

No, let me say it like this: Yesterday the question came — did I paint for others or paint for myself. The short answer is that each piece comes with you in mind…as a conversation, an exchange. 

But not this time. Not this week. This week is solitary.

We have to go back to the start — something is happening at the studio. 

Birthing?

No, there’s too much noise and urgency involved and this is so quiet.

It’s the gentle tap on the shoulder past midnight, the one meant to rouse but not alarm. The one that’s been waiting for hours to say what needs to be said and finally comes and finds you and whispers the confession. Waiting since October, since walks in the woods where words came. Yes, words.

So now these word-pieces are whispering, claiming their moment on my calendar. They requested my audience, without any other audience in mind. It’s the hardest way to paint—free of dialogue, free of feedback, fueled by gut reaction and unfiltered expression.

They won’t let any one else in. They won’t even let the colors in, y’all. I have to insist on the lightest touch of hue. So odd, these patient pieces.

And I do not know whose eyes they intend to reach.

So for now I share this process through words, and mainly to say: I didn’t mean to leave you outside, but the studio shut the door and declared itself a sanctuary of sorts. Maybe there is something sacred about all that whispering silence. These patient pieces do sound less like conversations and more like prayers. 

Intercessions, really.

And really, for us all.