I've never really thought of colour as something we simply look at.
For me, the response comes first. Before I've had time to think about it, something has already happened. Only afterwards do I begin to understand why a particular colour, texture or pattern has caught my attention.
Perhaps that's why I've always loved painting.
Colour as Feeling
Some colours fizz with energy. Others feel quiet and spacious. Some seem thick and rich enough to disappear into, while others are so light they almost seem to float.
Every now and then a colour stops feeling like a colour at all. It becomes somewhere I'd like to be, if only for a moment. I don't really know how else to describe it.
Not to look at it.
To exist in it.
That feeling doesn't last long, but it's enough.
I wonder if that's something we all experience from time to time, whether it's through colour, music, light or somewhere in nature. Perhaps we just don't always stop long enough to notice.
What Stays With Me
I don't set out to paint places or flowers that exist. I'm much more interested in the colours, textures and patterns that stay with me long after I've seen them.
Sometimes it's an unexpected combination. Sometimes it's the rhythm of tangled stems, layers of petals, or the way light catches something for a split second before it's gone again.
I rarely know exactly why those things stay with me.
They just do.
Trusting the Process
A painting usually begins with a fairly clear idea of what I want it to become.
It never ends that way.
At some point it always goes wrong.
I panic.
Every time.
Then I keep painting.
Sooner or later something shifts. Another layer. Another mark. Another colour.
Eventually it starts to flow again.
I've learnt to trust that part of the process, even if I seem to forget it every time I begin a new painting.
Looking Again
One of the things I love about original art is that it doesn't reveal itself all at once.
The light changes throughout the day. Colours move forwards and backwards. Textures appear that you hadn't noticed before. A painting you've walked past a hundred times suddenly catches your eye for a completely different reason.
I think that's one of the pleasures of living with original art.
Not that the painting changes.
Perhaps we do.
Or perhaps we've simply taken the time to look again.