my fingers are twitching. i've been away from my canvas these past couple of days. my arid mind wants to be suffused
with colour. colour that drips in thick globs of oil paint. or washes in the
fluidity of acrylic paints. since i wasn't painting, i needed to go and
find some paintings. just to look at. swim through colour and form depicted on
canvases. my mind sends out its feelers and licks all that paint off the
canvas, and stores it in some part of the brain, like bees storing honey – to
nurture my soul, shriveled up somewhere inside. my restless soul. it flies from
canvas to canvas trying to decipher these universes created by hands that have
no need of the spoken word. transmogrifying everyday visions into subliminal
messages. indelible impressions of folklore, idyllic depictions of landscape,
exuberant renditions of ordinary people caught in their everyday lives.
inarticulate abstractions of the paintbrush’s random meanderings on its mute realm - a stretched canvas, a board, a piece of paper. every rendition, no matter the genre, a palpable conduit of
subconscious energy. coloured offerings to the gods of the senses, swirling
with the lyrical nuances of poetry. colours strong, vibrant. colours speaking a language that have no need of
punctuations, or standard grammatical structure, but are a dialogue of the
senses. perceptions of metaphorical renditions of similarities and oppositions.
unities and polarities. harmonies and tensions. embodying the enigmas of
passions that merge into my being in subtle definitions.
-by Rita Putatunda
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