I see paintings everywhere.
In the rubbish on the beach, in the skies, in the raindrops dripping down the window pane. It’s a curse, like seeing dead people.
I found this one on a beach, there’s something almost Jackson Pollock going on in it – in the spray of colours, around the splash and swirl.
Just some rope and a tangle of frayed nylon cord on the sand. Odd that something so disposable, so wasteful, can be so beautiful. It’s just litter really, somebody else’s throw away washed up on the tide line.
Standing gazing down I’m captured by the randomness, the chaos, the tangled, jumbled order of it. How strange I must look staring down at some rubbish at my feet - not looking for beauty but finding it.
I want to pick it all up and paste it to a canvas - shells, twine, sticks, sand -- then hang it on a clean white wall.
I wonder, could I?