Looking back I see that as a kid all of this was rooted in defiance - about rebelling against the maths and sciences in a cowardly attempt to protect myself from the things I could not understand. As time went by it came to be about release. About learning to let go of the things I wanted most in this world in order to make room for the things I needed. Less angst. More acceptance. Making art lets me love the ugly. Painting forces me to look the reality of the world around me in the eye and then it blesses me with the chance to change it. It begs me to climb inside the parts of me that no longer make sense, all the bruises and the broken hearts, and get down on the floor with fear and work. It makes the giant promise that grace, fate and divine intervention will meet me there. I paint because I am selfish, because I want to know the point. I paint because I know life isn’t always fair and sometimes I cannot take it. I paint for proof that this is real, that he was here, that she said the things I think she did. I paint so I can have something real to hold on to when the moments gone and disappeared and all that’s left of it is light. I stand alone in the little room where I live with my dog and I look at all the things I have created. I hear a million voices, different sides to the exact same story, all speaking to me at once. I close my eyes and breathe it in. I touch the things that I have made and I am grateful.