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Each piece begins as an awkward silence of white space. I make a mark and the silence shatters. Sometimes the canvas is patient. It listens to my ideas and responds. Sometimes it is fiery and we shout at each other visually for hours or days before understanding creeps in.

I intend to paint what I know — the shifting of shadows and glimmer of sun through trees. The way prisms throw rainbows across a quiet wall. The sharp scent of a storm on the horizon. It seems romantic. These thoughts inspire me. In reality, this is not what I paint. When my intentions are no longer recognizable because the canvas pulls me into something deeper and more visceral, the magic has come. I get out of the way.

There comes an instant that a single mark creates a release for the tension that is ever-present near the completion. The work is finished. I can stand back and feel closure in the fragile balance of the elements. I come back to myself, breathe, and begin again.

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