Porthole

I have at times felt a sense of incompleteness, aching for a sense of place in this world, and a melancholy that perhaps it no longer exists. The Portuguese call this saudade; the Germans sehnsucht. Meaningfully, there is no word for this in my native English. As I work and attempt to capture the memory of the experience, the wax changes and, again, the moment has passed. Water is never the same, and each time I add pigment to the wax or heat the painting, it becomes a different place. Each work is infinite in possibility.