Every day is a creation, more often than not an unintentional but nonetheless unquestionable rendition of what we see and feel. The Universe is ultimately personal. Philosophically it is our day. Each of us – as an individual – will create his own eclectic museum of art. If we choose not to portray the fabrication with oil paint, words, music or dance – or through any other model  – we are nevertheless our own artistic vehicle of delivery, the blank canvas on which we portray our singular though unwitting depiction of the day.  And every day is a creation, an inescapable alignment with newness and discovery.  We prepare ourselves in the morning not unlike an actor seated before a mirror in his dressing room. Then apply the costume. And finally execute the performance. Even without design or formation there is conception, spawning thought and reaction into the Universe.

Not every day of the invention is a performance on stage. At times we are both the cast and the audience. Yet the nature of the representation does not defeat the quiet opportunity to express or capture meaning from the clouds. We may allow ourselves the luxury of evaporation and absorption, erasing the edges of definition while blending with the atmosphere. But the unwritten or masked expression awakens like a root from Nature’s soil. The only alternative is how not whether.

In my experience most artists have a theme to their work, not only the subject matter but more specifically the manner of illustration. This characteristic is close to the identity of the artist. It is as much a limitation as the difference between a dandelion or a rose – the infallible distinctions of alternate perfection.

The creative process not infrequently mires itself in the relentless capital and extraordinary nutrition that lies within or beneath. Transforming the elixirs of that resource is not so much a challenge as a question of enabling or exemplifying the peculiar ingredients, not unlike a cook having to create a meal from scratch. The detail of the cook’s expertise is seldom discernible except by casual reference to a hint of some recognizable flavour or component. But the taste is undeniable though inexpressible.

Likewise each day we foster a concoction on canvas. We are reminded too that no amount of makeup, proclamation or staging will succeed to disguise the version or incarnation. What in the end evolves from the preparation and deliberation is no more or less acute than our own perception of the reality that is our Universe.