Acrylic paint on wooden panel, oil paint on museum Arches Oil paper.
 

I keep returning to the garden where I was born.

Not quite the garden itself. More the feeling of having once belonged to it.

I paint from memory, although I don't always know what that means. The trees I remember are not quite the trees I paint. The colours change. A flower becomes an eye. An eye becomes something else. Sometimes I recognise the place before I know what I am looking at.

I think I am trying to get back to something. Then I wonder if there was ever anywhere to get back to.

The garden keeps becoming other things: childhood, paradise, loss, desire. I try to empty it again.

I paint. I look. I recognise it. Then I don't.

Nothing has changed.

Only rearranged.