Starlings

An uneventful morning. Usual suspects. Fifteen degrees. High tide. Easterly breeze. Calm sea. Full moon descending when I arrived, at 04:45. Congregations of starlings. Cheerful birds.

Amazed at my continual and permanent surprise when realizing that nothing is ever given. There is no given. Nothing is evident. There is no good reason for anything. There is no premise: not the paper I work on, not the ink, not the pen. Not the view my eyes are taking in, or trying to. How do you know what you see? How does one see?
How to create on paper, an equivalent of how I see?

I guess I should apologize for the quality of the photographs of the drawings.
Forget it, being incapable of making good photos is a badge of honour, for a painter.

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