I flow through all of this and colour abounds, shapeless, formless, in
itself as one. The light reflecting through the Andalusian landscape
inspires, radiates through my pores, its where I feel at home. It's sun-drenched summers and at
times cold felt winters, never long, but enough to revive a
remembrance of contrast.
of paint, like the many masked surfaces of the
hidden landscapes, the hidden Spain
behind closed doors, the hidden agenda behind
paintings, the textures, shades, they creep upon
me surrounding engulfing. My hands sometimes
caught up in dry earth, flower petals abound,
their colour, their fragrance, a twisted
richness in their decay, unnoticed but they too fall
victim to the sun and its heat, drenching them in its fullness and so it conspires and leaves a mark on me.
is felt, that heat. The brightness, colours saturated, whose verbacious
nature is left in harmony with all its cultures
Spanish, Moorish, and Andalusian. A mix of all unadulterated
beauty leaving its mark on the canvas, formless,
shapeless, hanging out to dry in the ever present sun. It takes no
prisoners, like the paintings, there to
reflect this intensity of all inside itself.
It stretches to movement,
through rhythm, through sound. Flamenco, the call of passion, its sorrow immersed in
itself, its colours dancing with sound, its heartbeat, the pulse of
Andalusia, vibrating, calling to all, its
heritage never far away. And so it is with textures, crossing shades,
blended strokes of paint smeared,
amongst itself, a mixture of tempo, of fusion, of everything and
yet nothing, nothing and yet everything.
These works engulf it all, circumnavigating my aura, capturing me in their spell,
illuminating a space, calming,
reflecting in its being, formless, shapeless like clouds. An interpretation
beckons like the changing dialects,
like the changing landscapes but none exist because they are in
themselves complete as one.