[Just another little ramble.]
It's time now to think about paper and washes. To ponder suggestive light coming through colors. Who cares about the artists? Just make me something to stare at.
A picture of water in summer, of snow in winter. A sailboat just there in watercolors. Silver-umber trees simply bordering a frostbitten meadow. It is hard to explain. These evocative scenes must not be hackneyed. They must be delicate and emerge from a special sensibility. Light and ostensible texture and tints from the hand of a visual poet. The pictures must be open so imagination can enter. So two minutes seems like two wondering hours.
I like to slip into the places where light touches substance. Where light falls through complex and nimble hues. Inside my head -- behind my eyes -- I create many little worlds from the way watercolors live on paper. Places those artists themselves don't even suspect.
Yes, this light falling into these colors and the way I go into watercolored shadows. I make up scenarios inside the scenes. To linger there a while. It is so nice in watercolors. The paper washed like a bright dream. And ambiguous flecks inspiring moments of pleasant melancholy.