Hockney’s in the dance of light outside this morning. The smell of the paint, the charcoal
on the fingers, contact with the surface of the paper. The arc of an arm, the twist of a wrist,
a mark that describes a series of notes erupting from the subconscious. When I open my eyes everything turns into sound at some point, crossing back & forth between music & words.
Objects dance, generate rhythms, exude sounds that turn into voices like enormous flocks of birds twisting & curling above us before turning back into the music of reflected light.
How to translate it?….one foot in front of the other.