Several years ago, I incorporated painting into my bedtime routine. I find it relaxing to make marks onto paper with tools from my art boxes. One, a blue plastic container, was purchased as I was starting art school over 45 years ago.  It still contains pencils from that time. The other is full of markers, pencils and pens purchased more recently.  My red toolbox is full of paint brushes, several belonged to my grandfather before me. 

Random marks curve and cross, breaking up that pristine surface that so many people find intimidating. Most of these marks will not be seen again, yet they serve an important purpose. They loosen my hand and my mind, and they form the first layer. While they may be visible here and there, they all remain, informing subsequent layers. As much as I may try to separate my conscious mind from the process, I cannot. There is, however, an attempt to step aside and let my subconscious reveal the story. Like the artwork, I am a multi layered entity, existing independently, at least for now. 

I slather paint the way I might apply peanut butter to a bagel or hot sauce to fried chicken. It’s a dynamic surface. 

Afterwards… maybe the next day, I cut that full sheet of paper into sections, thus removing my contriving self once again from the outcome. 

Like I do with my canvases, I look at them, not to edit, but to see what is there. Not every section works in this state, but some stand out as little gems. Often, I see the events of recent days, or distant memories that floated up from the recesses of my mind. They found their way down my right arm, and out onto the substrate. 

They amuse me.