I believe that it does, yes—with line, shape, and color. I compose pieces very deliberately, even if my intention is hidden away from everyone, including myself. My innate sense of how to use forms and figures is... what? I guess it is in service of Story, that elusive thing that everyone understands both differently and exactly the same. I break silence by attempting to articulate feelings—either with images or with words—as honestly as possible.
There is not enough honesty in the world.
Everyone is hiding. I hide too, behind my work, between my words…but it is there. I am there. Behind, around, between. Right there. You can see me if you look.
The act of making work breaks my silence.
I am so often silent, because I am so often by myself. I don’t need to make a sound, my voice rings loudly through my thoughts. There is a large, more pervasive silence with my work, the silence that comes when people encounter difference.
Silence roars.
I associate sleep with silence, an empty room, a blank sheet of paper or canvas, and the multihued black that exists behind your eyelids when you squeeze your eyes shut tightly.
Is there silence in my work? If there is, I don’t recognize it as such. How do I find the silence there, even as I try so hard to give it words?
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