Painting can reconcile sunlight, darkness and human psychology with the larger rhythm of the universe.

Images have their own rhythm.

They cannot be forced, and they do not exist in linear time.

Even at a time when everything can supposedly be explained, the world is still secret.

The painting tears it out of the time that is passing.

Although brushstrokes accumulate, there is an asceticism in the picture.

It wants to lose everything that is unnecessary, and presupposes a kind of emptiness and even desirelessness in us.

An openness entirely to what wants to reach us, what is beyond what we know already.

It often seems to me that one has to linger in order to really see.

It is when I linger that I can sense my relations, far beyond my fingertips,

beyond the seen, beyond the human, beyond the horizon. 

My senses – tentacles –––

There is no simple answer. One cannot circumvent the need to trust oneself, to always make adjustments.

Painting does not have the need to justify itself. It can just receive, without judgement,

and ask what it means to just be, and to enable others to be.