some prose on this / dmcq

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.

Layers of paint, like the many masked surfaces of the hidden landscapes, the hidden Spain behind closed doors, 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.

It 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, dripping 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.