Driving has always seemed like linear drawing to me. I feel the lines of the route shift, bend, reflect the unexpected movements to avoid hitting wildlife, etc.
As when I drive alone, I always draw in silence, paying careful attention to what the lines are doing, relishing the rich black ink marks or incisive lines cutting into the white paper void, picking up on their emotional charges. I could seriously draw forever, in part because this particular process is so in tune with my mind which operates simultaneously in many directions / in almost different lives. Where do they come from, these hundreds of never-ending new personages, foreign places, haunting moods and facial expressions?
I work to make the non-visible visible. Lines are connected to everything I have ever known or felt, but only in drawing with black ink on a blank surface—this specific process does not speak in color—am I able to reveal some very particular glimpses of my experiences.
