I had a photograph of a forest. A Sherwood of a forest — florescent, bosky, a thing you can’t make up. And I made up a Mickey fantasia of a forest — florid, tumescent, burnt down with color and intricate fuss.
My eye didn’t see what it saw. It saw what it wanted to see. The fact of the photo: the opinion of my painting.
We’re trapped in our bullish heads. My interlocutor in life of the mind says we have to live in another hemisphere before we can apprehend its light.
(c) 2020 JMN