The Liquid Image

I aliken the process of painting to swimming in a pool. The bottom, seen through the water, and the patterns of its tiling; on it, rippling shadows appear. These swirl as my body moves through the water. The shapes of the shadows warp with the refracting light in the water. There is the water itself, a tumultuous texture that clings to me. It bears me aloft and lets me slide into it, when I hold my breath, glides me along when I swim through. Shafts of light appear. In bright circumstances flecks of light can be seen right through it. Like milk. The third is the top layer that reflects the sky in its surface, sends flashes of light into my eyes. It fractures at each stroke I take. There are splashes, patterns, waves. And then there is me, in the thick of it, turning around, simultaneously making and contemplating the image. In it and of it.



Then there is the element of time and memories, and swirl of what I am aware of in a singular moment. It stands as a fragment in time that supersedes all usual measurement. In this broken open moment into which I swim, I am no longer aware of the pool’s edges, just as the painting is edgeless. The swelling surface holds me up, seems round, the moment infinite as miniature whirlpools form around me. I wonder which traces will be left after I get out and it all returns to flatness, reflecting a perpetual sky. Leaving only the drum roll of the rain, swallows and thirsty dragonflies occasionally pock-marking the perfect surface, to create some mild and temporary disturbance.


S2 (with a little editing by S1)