no more home

No longer a home, or no longer going home, when staying is impossible and leaving is not a solution. Following the flight of thoughts, never arriving, being on the move, and in the process of constantly crossing through yourself. Works of art are objects of contemplation, reminding us of something that may never have been an image. Images are no longer a home; they are found objects, and all the decisions never made remain present within them, audible like overtones. Stories are preserved in things, stories of origin, of contrasts, of complements, of need, of excess, and of distraction. Not least, to be surprised again by the possibility of seeing something one had never seen quite like that before—not because it was new, but because it suddenly had more to do with yourself. One would like it to be new, but one would also like to recognize something. Just like the smell in your grandparents’ place, which you will never forget and which remains a home, even though the house has long since been gone.

To find yourself wondering again, just how far you could stray from what you set out to do in the first place. Precision in all its imperfection; one thought pushing itself ahead of another, making possible a new order that differs from the chaos of life. To do something in such a way that anyone would claim they could do it just the same—“that would be nice”— to practice a matter of course.

That what can be called an image, revealing the edges of the image, a place, an occasion for seeing. Painting is a place, and the image is a merging of seeing and feeling. Reality is nourished by disordered emotional states, by sensations. Words no longer capture it, especially if they are the old words. What can one really say about reality? What is it other than the passing of days, the wind in the grass and bushes, the shimmering light as it rustles through the trees? Only the facts, real, honest, natural, like life itself. So what is it all about? Sensations in the true sense of the word, sensory experiences, aesthetic reflection, emotions that manifest themselves in images. Is the image finished when all possibilities have been explored, or when exactly that hasn’t happened? Didn’t I just want to do something else? I can’t remember that name anymore, but the light is beautiful right now.

Take me home,
restless heart—
I’ve had enough
of wandering
on my own

.