September 2005
 

Was it the grieving mother of the Swedish captain? Stories of women going mad.
A stuffed crocodile. The sound of a foghorn. A piece of sailcloth.
Was it a row on the River?
A joke one night after a bottle of wine that became a challenge and an adventure.
Or the journey to the Island one stormy week in March?
The long, deserted shores facing infinity.
The wind that was impossible to shut out.
Or...
was it all just strange coincidences like life itself?
Making art is a journey, an adventure. The process is unpredictable.
Things happen by accident; something you experience, see, hear or read can suddenly take the work in another direction.
You start at a particular point but you never know where it will end. Hard not to lose the thread, hard to stay inside a subject or a theme.
Your thoughts want to remain free.
To take risks seems necessary.
What interested me was the sea as a representation of our dreams, of the adventure, the longing and the waiting. To stay or to leave.
The relationship between the woman and the sea. Memory, reality and illusion. I searched for a narrative expression, a story and a counter-story.

Two perspectives. Image and text.