There is, for a while, just a kind of prevailing emptiness, lowness. The weather has been grey and cold for some days and there seems to be nothing to live for. The artist sits and waits….allows himself to sink down into this place until his eyes adjust and the different hues and scents of discomfort come forth. Boredom, smooth and brown; worry, sea green and speckled with dots of white, loneliness, musty, dirty grey. Slowly, his fingers move to pick up his brush and mix new pigments and once again, he paints.
Palate of Suffering
Constant Voice 