From inside, a hand, what is it about?

From inside, I decided to paint a hand and began to draw the outlines of my own. Open hand, friendly or aggressive, hand that has been working or hand that will work, old or young, helping or seeking. The outlines were easy made, the expression more difficult. Which story should arise from this hand?

The hand that was created is interesting, at least for myself. It arises questions and offers possibilities. And nothing is ever quite obvious.

From inside, walking the baby

From inside, it was long ago, the child was quite small, just a baby. It was in October and the parents were out walking. The Mother looks happy, the Father maybe a bit worried. They don't seem to bother about the cool and windy weather.

In real life the parents did not at all look this way, and there was no dog. But these things the baby couldn't know about.

From inside, clouds, smoke and empty talking

From inside, some paintings remain at the floor waiting to be put up on the wall. Maybe it's not yet their time or maybe their time has already passed. These paintings appear like new whenever I notice them. And I wonder what this one is about: clouds, smoke or empty talking?

By the way this seems to be a man who doesn't notice you but who want to be regarded himself. In my opinion his clothes are ridiculous.

Faugères, oh what a bread!

Faugères, oh what a bread! Some glasses of that charming wine in a cool bottle, made from Grenache, Cinsault and some Carignan, all traditional varieties, some olives and a piece of sausage, dried in the sun. Sitting at the hillside. A simple memory – that remains.

Nearby, an animal standing and a man waiting

Nearby, again a cool day. The small decorated animal shakes and shivers. The huge man waits quietly for the animal to sit down and do what it is supposed to do. But it doesn't.

I remain there for a while, regarding, then respectfully leave. Inside is a feeling that I have experienced something important.

From inside, Fish and Bird

From inside, today I painted a story. It was about a Bird and a Fish that lived for many years together. The Bird up in the sky, the Fish deep down in the sea. One day the little fish disappeared, and the Bird found itself alone up in the sky. That was the story. But in the painting the Fish is there and the Bird is gone. So looking at the picture is not the same as listening to the story.

New Zealand, so fresh

South Island, far downwards, eastern coast. In the middle of the deep, white Swedish winter I incidently see this photo. And remember the black sand, the green, fresh sea, the blue sky. The salted air, the wind. And waves rolling, rolling, rolling. First was the Picture, then was the Word. Right?