I am at work so that indefinable freedoms come to the interpreters of my paintings. For I trust in the nature of universal being enough to know that as my imagination opens, so too will that of my viewer.
'I have walked to the moon and back, my legs are now those of a mythical beast stiffly muscled, piebald, capable of a long long march.' One walks without a map. As insubstantial as clouds lie the mountains. Rivers are comprised of intense emotions. But the deepest well of these lies directly overhead among the stars, always stirring. All that the stars have to say is true. And the heart, at riverside understars, may understand all landscape. If there are hills, mist lies on them. There is a raging river, peace lies in that.
When the precious roadside fire burns its dance of gold and scarlet, the eye sees what lies within -- long days of heartwork winding through woodland heights, one league of laughter, one league of tears. When the black and silver coal and ash vibrate beneath an aura of quiescence, then the eye must dream in sacred presence.
Here in the shadows of ultimate vision the practiced memory and imagination of the sleeping painter work. At his best, he surrenders devotedly with love to the experience of a most gentle place.
At a roadside fountain, known since before childhood's conception, the painter's thirst is quenched. Imagination's white foaming source plunges heavy as an avalanche of snow. The grey sun of a new cycle is visible beyond the woods. Rain sleet and snow swell the river until angry green waters gather speed in the gorges. In one and the same moment summer blazes aloft and winter dives deep.
For a long time the woodland hills have wound round their spirals, round and round the days, months, seasons and cycles.