There is art inside my mind clawing to get out, like an animal trapped inside a box. No paintbrush or pencil in hand provides a key to unlock the box. No spinning clay.
No hammer nor chisel. No ivory keys, nor strings, not even a stick beating on stretched hide for relief. The building pressure is relentless. More images, more thoughts, more words, more ideas,
kicking, screaming, scratching to be released. But there is no highway. No tunnels or paths for the art to escape. No circuits that connect my mind to my hand, or even my feet; else I could dance.
How I envy the musician and the painter and the sculptor and the dancer for whom the art appears to flow so readily.
I have only light; its presence or its absence, in all its hues and brilliance, its rays, its reflections, its luminescence. And I have a tiny box to capture just an instant of its existence.
And that's what you see here.