It’s questionable whether it’s a good idea to provide an explanation of my work. Purists will say the work should speak for itself.
Still, I’d like to share something about my experience of the past few weeks, encouraged by what I read this morning about the importance of storytelling.
In one of the darkest weeks of my recent memory, several pieces emerged that now feel different from when I created them. That realization is fascinating in itself, but I also want to share something about a process of discovery and what it brings me.
In my previous post, I wrote about Sam Francis, who believed—or at least searched for—the form or structure of melancholy (among other things). Even, if I understand him correctly, as a universal form, an archetype. I remain skeptical about that last part, but what has emerged from my hands, my body, my subconscious in recent weeks comes, for the first time, close to my personal experience of a deep darkness—something I feel I cannot share with others, cannot put into words, cannot express.
These are works with multiple layers. At the ‘bottom’ lies something I describe with the Dutch word kortsluiting (for lack of a better term), which literally translates as ‘short circuit'. Above that come other layers to hide it, to prevent it from coming into contact with light. Layers of protection, layers to present myself differently, layers to keep me standing.
I worked with charcoal for the first time, and apparently, because it is a different material, a different medium, something different happens—something different emerges. Other forms, other colors appear in a way that makes you want to go further, to explore more, because it starts to feel like a journey of discovery. Perhaps I’m describing what others call inspiration, but for me it is a new experience.
What continues to amaze me is that afterward, the next day, I look at what I’ve made and it feels as if it’s new to me. As if I didn’t create it myself, and yet I recognize what I see, what it evokes, how it presents itself to me, how it appears. It resonates.
And what’s so wonderful is that it goes beyond judgment, beyond thought. I don’t have to find it beautiful; I don’t have to ask myself, “Is the composition balanced?” or “Am I making enough use of contrasts?” or “What will others think of this?”
In that sense, it really does feel as though I’m letting go and allowing the work to speak for itself. Perhaps it won’t resonate with others (though I secretly hope it will), but above all, it speaks to me. In a way that makes me want to continue, to stay curious, to explore the path and the process further. And that, I think, is connected to life force. Through painting, I sometimes manage, now and then, to connect with that life force.
I experience that as magical, because it truly arises from the dark opposite …..
