Dot. Dit. Dit Dit Dot
Dropping my finger and dragging it.
Like a musical moment marking time. The result a Jetson-like pattern. The boomerang has nothing on this.
Dot. dot dot.
When I make marks they have sounds.
A new conversation of marks. Quick with a couple that cut through the surface.
A lightness that surprised.
Sometimes black and white has more color than I can fathom.
The tonal reaches thrill me and satisfy me.
Not fearing the outcome.
Like a cool summer evening. I think of breezes from the ocean and bubbling sands near the waters edge.
Dots and dashes. Like dragging my foot in the sand at low tide.
Undulating breeze. By the ocean.
A curtain of beads and light refraction comes to mind. I wasn’t thinking that whaen I drew it.
It was more like swimming when I made the the marks.