talking art

When I was kid we use to catch fireflies. Once someone scraped one on the street. Although it died, its clear green-white light kept glowing in a brief angelic scrawl on the night asphalt.
This is how I think of painting when I'm not thinking of actual imagery. A cosmic, wordless one-liner drawn on purpose by mistake. That's the brush stroke. That's the beginning and the last movement.
Often places ask for an artist's statement. Its suppose to sum up your work like a Hollywood movie pitch, but with bigger words and less clarity.
I never know what to say. I can tell stories about individual pictures. I can describe dreams that have resulted in pictures. I can even build you a wedding cake of metaphors that actually tastes good.
But the light-song of the fireflies death is written on summer's blackboard.
That's why I paint.