Why I Do What I Do: PART2

He asked me why I paint

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.

My mind went back to when I lived in St Maarten.

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?

Little boxes watercolors were cheap at Van Dorp.

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?

I paint because it's natural?

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?

Me.

All me.

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.

It's blown me to the city, and swept me to a small town.

Some mark miles of darkness and depression,

some joy and friendship

love

motherhood

It's all there

for anyone to see

my story laid bare in cyan and chartreuse.

I do what I do because it's what I was made for.

-----------Post Edit-------------------------------

I plan to tell the very true stories behind the paintings here in the next few weeks.