Thinking outside the box has never been my forte. Growing up feeling I didn't belong, I strove to be like everyone else—unless I could be more Everyman than anyone I knew. This formula has haunted my perception of myself and myself-as-relative-to-others for some sixty years. I forged my images of reality awash in emotion and didn't realize how much emotion colored them that I didn't see the structures hidden beneath.
These are not grounds for regret. It's how the dice fell and they fall for every one of us. Our insight into the bricks and mortar of our reality does grow with experience. Hell does not crack open and swallow us. Monsters lose their roars and bites. We begin to see that there in fact are as many realities as ways of seeing life. We have choices in how we interpret the throw of the dice and even re-throw them for another set of interpretations. I think maybe that artists are not as intransigently rooted in the reality they share with others. They can strip away interpretative layers and color down to empty lines and shapes that they can then fill with their own vision, their own chosen significance.
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