I didn't really know how to answer.
I could not paint?
Since I first picked up a brush the thought hadn't occurred to me.
Why do I paint?
I tried to come up with a coherent answer.
In a tiny apartment in Cupecoy.
My car got stolen, and it wasn't safe to walk anywhere after dark.
I paint because some Haitian guys stole my car?
I paint because a dutch art shop was having a sale?
Peter could study all night long and I wouldn't mind that we didn't have cable because those long quiet hours flew by when I was trying to get the shades just right.
I paint because my hands just naturally seemed to understand how to move the brush.
I paint because it's easy?
He could see me kind of floundering to give an answer, so he changed the question a little.
When you start a painting is it for someone in particular?
Do you paint for yourself or for others?
Little pieces of my soul are tucked away in the brushstrokes.
There's a story behind every canvas.
Each piece is a mile marker on this (literal) journey I've been on for years.
It's taken me abroad.
It's brought me home.
Some mark miles of darkness and depression,
some joy and friendship
It's all there
for anyone to see
I do what I do because it's what I was made for.
I plan to tell the very true stories behind the paintings here in the next few weeks.