My earliest memory of painting was when I was five years old, the youngest in my first grade class.
In my smock, before an easel, I started painting pretty much the way I do now. I smeared colors onto the paper, watching them drip together. When time was up, I looked around to see that other kids had painted houses, dogs, trees, cars, or their families. Oh. I didn't know you were supposed to paint actual stuff.
I understand now: you don't have to paint actual stuff. You can paint to get away from stuff, or to better understand stuff, or to find the stuff beneath the stuff.
One day I decided to let myself paint however I wished.
I heard an interview on NPR's "Fresh Air" with David Sedaris in which he enthused about his new fascination with spiders. He said one day he didn't care about spiders, and the next day, he did.
That's one way to look at why life is always worth living.
Passion can well up tomorrow with a fierceness and spontaneity completely unimagined today.
My process is layered. I start with a gradient background, add blocks of color with paint, rice paper, or screens, and embellish with marbling or threading. Sometimes I start with a telos, an idea of where I want to end up. Other times, I let the piece evolve spontaneously.