Escaping from dutiful participation, I am engrossed in crude line, simple colour, unplanned sketch.
This art is still alive to me.
Resistant to academic form, I make do with child-informed imagery. It has a keen edge.
I brandish it now.
It remains stubbornly ignorant of rigour, it appears quite oblivious to science. From, a sunlit window-sill, a dull page opens up distant horizons to us....alone.
I am there again, revisiting a forgotten encampment. There is warmth, there is fire, there are a thousand stories to be heard.
She was always there for me.
How can one explain that however far one goes from oneself one always returns to one's imperturbable essence, one's dreams...
Wherever my path shall lead, I am, as ever, prepared for uncertain journey. I will need little luggage.
Left with the memory of some beaten up biro, a last pencil stub, and a sunlit window-sill; I will be free.
Dreams-drawn will know no bounds.
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