Writing is similar to pushing a baby out of a womb. Art for me is just that. A baby that I gave life to. Then there’s always the feeling of wonder, prize and amazement like “That came out of me?”
Writing and painting on my face is no different. Much of what I paint on my face will resurface in my painting. Sometimes I ask myself “What made me do that?”
Writing is a work of art. It’s a labor of love. Painting is a conversation. Art is my language. Sometimes a colloquy. Sometimes a soliloquy. Each stroke of my brush is a lyric or verse, a song, a poem, a prayer, or an affirmation. The painting on my face becomes a letter.
Creating is a bona fide spiritual experience. Art is in that sacred realm. It is the crown of the experience. And in the height of creativity the bird will come and the bird will land if the environment is right.