When the child was a child...
It had a precise picture of paradise
And now can only vaguely conceive of it at best
It couldn’t imagine nothingness
And today shudders in the face of it (1)
i wanted these landscapes to be intimate, more
abstract, replete, substantive, tactile, suffused with
surface texture, pattern, mark-making, colour and
form; evocative, conjuring memories of being there. i
did not wish to privilege any one leaf or twig, or create
a hierarchy of subject.
i didn’t want to leave anything out, but i couldn’t help
it.
There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is
translated through you into action, and there is only
one of you in all time, this expression is unique, and if
you block it, it will never exist through any other
medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is
not your business to determine how good it is, not
how it compares with other expression. It is your
business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep
the channel open. You do not even have to believe in
yourself or your work. You have to keep open and
aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep
the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no
satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a
queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that
keeps us marching... (2)
although all the paintings depict actual places, i hoped
by narrowing my focus to create something both
more comprehensive on the one hand and less
specific on the other. that as metaphor the miracle of
the burning bush (the bush burned with fire, and the
bush was not consumed) might suggest the possibility
of redemption from our heavy ecological footprint.
without straying too far from home in the midst of
our urban sprawl, i find small tangles almost
everywhere, overlooked, unannounced, in harmony,
where one branch gives way to a different tree,
foliage intermingles, where nothing in particular
becomes everything in a smile of light.
And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling, (3)
penny eisenberg 2009
(1) Peter Handke
(2) Martha Graham
(3) T.S. Eliot