As a kid, I could make art before I could speak.
This was my form of communication.
I drew all day and would bring my notebook to the dinner table, it was a personal way to concentrate and made me feel safe in a chaotic place.
I would go into my imagination and entertain myself there for hours, disappear from the world or draw what was around me.
The latest fashions, my imaginary friends, a japanese geisha, lovers intertwined, a sorcerous with a crystal ball, torture, magic, distortion.
Perhaps these were records of past lives or notations to the themes that would attract my work in later years.
It gave me an immense feeling to show my ability and give it away, I could shine.
These ball point pen and marker drawings from my adolescence turned into ink and brush when I was in my early teens.
The lines bled into ink and watercolor, then into oil paint which I would thin out, so I could move it and the figures from my imagination became real life study's, with shapes and shadows that made them more alive.
Notes on life, psycological studies, the sitter and my own map of a moment. I wanted to scream through the pictures and people seem fragmented or floating in space the way I felt at the time unsure in my changing body of what space I filled up, tripping in the footsteps of my path ( destiny ) I practiced.
Made a commitment to my world of drawing to be free and see the forms come out at me or let stains lead me to the next choice, loose a sense of time in them.
As I became older I became more self conscious, aware of the time passing I worked quicker and with impatience.
I had to unlearn some ideas I had about observing in order to set my mind free of the pressure of being self conscious and really draw what was in front of me or listen to my heart, which sometimes has too many voices and makes me the queen of indecision.
I remember in the first day of art school the drawing teacher had all the students draw a pyramid.
We pined our drawings on the wall and stared at all the different versions of a triangle.
He selected my own out and said that if he were to take one home he would pick this one, because of its autonomy it felt like a work of art.
But this class is not about art it was about the technique of drawing and by the end of the semester he managed to make everyone's drawings look identical.
This terrified me I was resistant to learning his tricks.
And in our last critique he told me I learned nothing.
During a vipasina (10 days of silence ) in 2012
I found myself scratching a drawing with some match sticks on a brown paper napkin that had blown by.
It is a primal instinct for me to go this route.
There is nothing else I can do.
Unconsciously or consciously I am led back to it no matter where I divert my attention.
It is where I am at home.
And by following my hand over these years I can see what I've learnt and forgotten.