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When I was younger,
I thought that I would be a Psychologist. Then I fell in love with a
painting. I’d been in love before, but never with something so colourful,
so obscure yet rife with promise. It was a painting by Mexican artist
Frida Kahlo. Her paintings are highly expressive and precisely detailed
and I would never forget their harrowing witness to her own physical and
mental suffering. This was a letter. And ever since reading it, I’ve been
trying to write back.
I don’t know where my ideas come from exactly. Sometimes they emerge
fully-formed while I’m sitting in traffic. Other times, I gather all of my
favourite materials and begin to weave images together with fabric, paint,
medium and words until something coalesces. Often I make ‘mistakes’ or end
up looking at a disaster I’d like to throw out the window. When this
happens, I force myself to keep going. I remember my Dad tuning his
guitar; the sound was the most confusing right before it suddenly snapped
into harmony. This is the same way with paintings. And maybe even with
love.
I know that a painting is finished because it seems like the right thing
has been spoken -- something I wouldn’t mind sharing with my friends (or
with you).
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