It seems like death is a very hard subject for most people. Even if it happens everyday to someone. Death is final. Everything stops. Or does it. . . It all depends on how you think about it. What you feel, perhaps believe. Nothing more can be done on the physical plane but a lot still happens in how you think about things.
So maybe it’s just a memory. Life. And memory can be so fickle. Maybe that’s why I’m so intrigued lately by the images that appear in my paintings, then disappear and leave traces of their being, suggestions of what was or might have been or still, might become, depending on how I work with it and look at it. It’s almost like graffiti under the paint. As long as I don’t try to tidy things up, I’m okay.