When I’m depressed, I travel. And I’ve been traveling a lot these days. Suddenly, I find myself just wanting to process every place I find myself in, with paint. Not in the way a photojournalist might capture the look of a place. But the way a painter FEELS it. A standing-in-the-middle of it all, wide open and absorbing everything. Letting it wash across all senses, vibrating with the feel of it, and then, in an ecstatic frenzy, bleeding it across wood and canvas, pushing it from every sensory organ like a birthing.
Suddenly, these places are meaning something so much bigger than the pieces. It’s a sudden, jolting, staggering perception, a joining of inner and external landscapes. A sense of what is really there, within and beneath and inseparable from the concrete and the steel, the flesh and bone, the Observer and observed.
Anyway… This is Chinatown.