Art has memory form

But that painting was not finished. I felt it needed more work (both internal and material). 

One of those mornings, I started scratching the top layer with a cutter. I have always had a fascination with the aged painted walls of old houses, deteriorated over time and revealing their initial paint. I am also drawn to oxidized metal surfaces. I cannot explain why, but if the surface looks old, then I love it (I melt right away). 

It intrigues me to scratch and reveal the colors left behind, both those from my past and those in the underlayers of the painting. It is like scratching the skin of the canvas without worrying where that leads to. I am not afraid to see what is underneath, instead I observe with excitement the way the colors contrast and form a collective assembly of marks. That, I would call it, inverse creation.

Time passes patiently, building to solitude, accompanied by the thoughts: “How did I start doing art? Why? What kind of artist am I? Why did I choose to spend hours improvising? Why experiment in the studio instead of working in science?” A sea of questions in my mind.

My process is experimental and unplanned. Abstract art is my process of unveiling. It offers long hours in real solitude. It is meditation, followed by clarity and a day full of sunbeams. 

With the same blade, I started writing down some of my heavy thoughts, not because I wanted but because they were there to hold the tough conversations. These thoughts are so intimate that I scribble them. 

Over the years, me and you, irremediably cover our past with two kinds of layers: (1) the unresolved matters we have been dealing with, and (2) the ones forgotten in the depths of the soul. While scratching the painting, I do internal work, sometimes insatiably and repeatedly, until the thought finally loses its strength and fades away. Sometimes the thought returns, but with much less power... and I simply scratch it away. 

I will be scratching until I cannot even remember what that was about. It is meditation, clearing the mind and marveling at what remains: the colors, the random fashion of all shapes, the contrast between the new canvas and scratches, and the way they resonate with me. I observe them over time, and I see them with space. I can recognize what was always there, and at the same time be happy for having gone through all of it. Contemplation and silence.

Next, I begin to build the future and the present—my sweet wishes, what I want in my life. This is how destruction became a tree of life:  

Just a quick story: the first layer of the painting was also a tree of life. I had forgotten that initial layer until I found myself, awake and scratching vertical lines in the middle, forming the trunk. I was stunned by the fact that somewhere in my mind I was not done with the tree of life. I had to finish it.