I’ve never been in an emergency where the slow waxing and waning of the deafening siren was needed, but still the sound and its unmistakable meaning are embedded in my subconscious. Ethereal experiences and their concrete memories bubble to the surface of my mind. They are the substance of some sort of pool of ideas, an accumulation of experience that is both real and not real. Klaxon, was one of those paintings where the name came to me first, but quick on its heels came the flash of an image.
Originally the girl was silent. She was ignoring the warning from the spray painted alarm, but eventually she started to scream. The meaning of it all? I thought I knew with that flash, but then it went away. While I paint, meaning becomes the baseline from a song playing in the apartment next door. You know it’s there, but you can’t put a name to the song. When the painting is finished sometimes it comes back, and you wonder why you couldn’t recognize the song earlier, but other times the meaning decides to keep its own company.