Patrick Turner-Lee

Now I’m ready to paint.

Everything here is still weather — charcoal, pastel, laid down before the oil arrives to settle it. This is the pressure system building, not yet the storm. Memory doesn’t come to me as narrative; it comes as fronts colliding, gathering somewhere below language, waiting to be given a body.

I think the studio’s real work happens right here, before the paint — in staying with what hasn’t resolved yet instead of rushing to make it mean something. The oil will come and hold a version of this still. But right now it’s only atmosphere, only weather, only the moment before.

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