For One
I cannot mark a flat surface so that, with light's reflection, it suggests objects, space and dimension. I have a history of efforts to persuade me otherwise, yet I am convinced by my terror that it is impossible. If it was possible, my hands have forgotten how. If I persist, it is because I must.
So I lie.
I war with myself, while my hands battle the crude in the attempt express boiling internal recipes: a vast, fickle, electrochemical-or perhaps spiritual-ecosystem. They have no memory, these hands, nothing beyond the instinctual.
For an image, felt long before seen, I embrace the subconscious as reality and actuality fades to inconsequence. Somewhere between the conception and birth of a work, I touch the elsewhere and momentarily lose my mind.