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I think of death as an ascension into the womb of the Earth.
I had three small canvases and I wanted to use them to play with color. I had acrylics. I wondered what would happen if I baked the paintings after I played with them. Ignore for the moment that I was an absolute idiot to put paintings in my kitchen oven and bake them. There was a smell. I didn’t leave them in long enough to turn black or catch fire. I pulled them out bubbling. Ignore for the moment that I was an absolute idiot for not at least wearing a respirator. I was mesmerized by the boiling patterns that had emerged.
The patterns reminded me of fractal tangles of roots. I stacked the paintings and began making a tree, going over the little calderas with oils, tracing the observations that became what you see.