In The Dark Attics Of

She Knew This Music--knew It Down To The Very Core Of Her Being--but She Had Never Heard It Before. Unfamiliar, It Had Still Always Been There Inside Her, Waiting To Be Woken. It Grew From The Core Of Mystery That Gives A Secret Its Special Delight, Religion Its Awe. It Demanded To Be Accepted By Simple Faith, Not Dissected Or Questioned, And At The Same Time, It Begged To Be Doubted And Probed.

People Want To Know Those Details. They Think It Gives Them Greater Insight Into A Piece Of Art, But When They Approach A Painting In Such A Manner, They Are Belittling Both The Artist’s Work And Their Own Ability To Experience It. Each Painting I Do Says Everything I Want To Say On Its Subject And In Terms Of That Painting, And Not All The Trivia In The World Concerning My Private Life Will Give The Viewer More Insight Into It Than What Hangs There Before Their Eyes. Frankly, As Far As I’m Concerned, Even Titling A Work Is An Unnecessary Concession.

It Is Important To Know What A Person Was. But It's More Important To Know What They Are Now.

I Envy The Music Lovers Hear. I See Them Walking Hand In Hand, Standing Close To Each Other In A Queue At A Theater Or Subway Station, Heads Touching While They Sit On A Park Bench, And I Ache To Hear The Song That Plays Between Them: The Stirring Chords Of Romance's First Bloom, The Stately Airs That Whisper Between A Couple Long In Love. You Can See It In The Way They Look At Each Other... You Can Almost Hear It. Almost, But Not Quite, Because The Music Belongs To Them And All You Can Have Of It Is A Vague Echo That Rises Up From The Bittersweet Murmur And Shuffle Of Your Own Memories.

I Don't Think The World Works On Merit.