I've been painting for about 15 years. Being the daughter of two abstract painters, it may seem strange for me to paint flowers and fabrics, but i don't feel quite ready to try the magnificent leap into the void which is the Abstract, someday perhaps...
Meanwhile i paint that which moves me, flowers growing haphazard, bucolic nature, its poetic disorder, and tutus abandoned in a disparate fashion.
Anarchic nature, like the iconoclastic way of presenting tutus slipping off their hangers, wouldn't mean anything to most of us, only accident, an error of man or of nature.
Jean Cocteau in his " Letters to Mitoraj " wrote :"sanctify yours errors".
This perfecty describes my way of painting in an impressionist fashion leaving free access to imagination, to improvisation, to the fantasy of tachism wich like an obstinate insect will go where my conscience doesn't expect it to, but my subconscious will delight, and repercut from splash to splash, accidents from unfettered brush, strokes wich the canvas is expecting;serene liberty, a sliver of absolute.
Each canvas, receiving striates of colors and washes, ends up almost acquiring its soul.
Humbly, I try to obey to this, and become just the vector of the instant.
I thank life and all those who encouraged me to able, everyday, in my studio to feel this liberty to begin,with each creation, a marvelous adventure.