My first memory of art is seeing hieroglyphics. When we were told we didn't know what they meant, those strange shapes and drawings became so magical.
Years later, I discovered the Rosetta stone in the British museum. That is the stone that contains hieroglyphics directly translated into Ancient Greek, and is how we translated those mystical symbols; but the pictures of hawks, snakes and eyes are neither curses nor spells nor recipes for love potions. The Rosetta stone is all about taxes and laws and edicts - it is ancient Egyptian admin.
That's why I don't like talking about or explaining art. I could translate everything but maybe you have invented an even more magical meaning. My explanation could be admin to you.
I could write something about pieces in conversation with the visual language of a post-situational indictment of a fragile modernity. I am sure galleries find that type of thing helpful when trying to sell art to fund managers. Yawn.
Art is a celebration of being alive. If you ride a motorbike at night and look up at the moon. When it starts to rain and you sit and watch the people rush home. When the water in the kettle boils. I am not going to write a poem about it. You will know the feeling. You might not get that looking at my art, I know that. I feel that too sometimes! But sometimes I look at my art and I can feel it. It’s like looking at the pyramids. You don’t need to explain those.
W.O.
