Outside of my creative work, I measure
almost everything.
I organise, I quantify, I calibrate. The
quantities, timetables and durations give
structure to my days. Without them, I
lose focus.
Then I draw.
The numbers stop there.
The fluorescent orange touches the page.
For a moment, it seems to burn it.
I think of a split open pomegranate. The juice flows,
my eyes taste it.
The drawing turns sweet.
I don’t know how much orange is needed.
I only know if more is needed.
In the centre of the table, a glass
of water waits.
The pigments remain suspended for a moment,
then slowly sink towards
the bottom. The paper absorbs them. Some areas
remain damp whilst others have already
changed.
I don’t count the minutes.
I measure neither the time I must wait,
nor the amount of colour, nor the moment when I must
carry on.
And yet, I know.
I know when it is too early.
I know when one colour can blend with
another.
I know when I must wait a little longer.
Outside, boundaries prevent me from going off in
all directions.
Here, I can cross them.
I can push a colour beyond what
I would have thought possible. Orange becomes
too orange. The fluorescent verges on excess.
Sometimes I seek out precisely that spot:
the one where something overflows without yet
being lost.
I play with what lies beyond the limits.
I couldn’t put a value on it.
I cannot say at what point
a colour becomes excessive, nor how many
seconds separate ‘too soon’ from the moment that is just right.
Yet the difference is clear.
I recognise it.
The water clears. The pigments settle.
The paper changes. The light shifts.
Then comes the moment.
No figure heralds it.
No rule confirms it.
I start again.
In almost everything else, I measure
to find out.
Here, I know without measuring.
Precision remains.
It simply no longer has a unit.
The limit also remains.
But it is no longer before me.
It is within me.
