Mary Palmer

When I was young I would stare into the Christmas tree for what seemed to be hours, imagining I was about 2 inches tall and living amongst the branches, dazzled by the sparkle of the lights and the details of each colorful ornament. Like meditating with paint, I found I could go anywhere I wanted to. It could be summer when the snow was falling outside or the cool crisp winter when the days were too hot.

Contemplating all the details or possibilities that a drop of ink or a blob of paint can hold locked within it begins as an intriguing mystery. Being able to direct and watch it grow into something that can, even for a moment, transport the viewer to another place, is a tremendously fulfilling adventure.

I have always been able to tell when a painting is done, when I find myself in it; I hope you can too.