My creativity tends to happen in an explosive way. It does not unfold gradually; it happens excessively, or not at all.
At this point in my life, I know things are not going right when making art feels unnatural, or when it is no longer enjoyable. Stagnation and a lack of flow are a kind of creative death. Making art painfully may look impressive to others, but life is too short for that.
Using oil pastels takes me back to childhood, when my mother would buy them for us from the local art shop. I love their immediacy: they go from zero to one hundred real quick. They are loud; they communicate in the language of colour.
These works were made in India in 2014, during the cathartic and unmasking phase I have mentioned elsewhere. Although they were made then, I still think of them as an unfolding body of work.
