miguel

Near Oneonta

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It is November and snow will arrive before night falls. I draw the pond and the bleak field as quickly as I can, for as long as my fingers can withstand the wind.

Sometime later on, I don’t remember how long afterwards, in the warmth of my studio, I painted the scene from memory. The sky unfolded into the paper as one of those accidents that can happen when you abandon the urge to control things and just allow watercolor do what it wants to do.

The red canoe was an accident as well. It appeared out of nowhere in my empty mind as a beautiful vessel, broken apart by water, like a heart can break open in sadness, or joy, or in both at the same time.

Rain Street

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In one of his poems, Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) wrote: “It rains in my heart / As it rains in the town….” The poem was not on my mind when I created this image. Only later, on reflection, a woman walking alone in the rain on a deserted street, perhaps on her way to a cinema on a windy corner, represents the emotion of rain inside of us and outside of us I was intuitively trying to suggest.

People often ask where my images come from. I may reply, “Intuition,” or “Imagination,” but the truth is, I don’t know. A stranger truth: I’m content not to know.

The Dancer’s Wedding

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On most mornings, as the sun comes up, I emerge from sleep, slowly kicking away sheets and blankets and floating up like a deep sea diver onto the surface of a new day. I’m still alive, I think, but I’m confused.

A dream, slowly fading away, resists comprehension: I see through the walls to the green hills on the other side of the bay. Trees and the moon and a puddle of water are invading the room. Oops, how did I change gender? I was a male when I fell asleep. The veiled figure is lovely. She wants to dance. Shall I?

My cat, who moments ago was black and the size of a panther, says, “Yes, Yes, Yes!”