kaleesi Painting

There are those who are born geniuses, bottomless vessels of inspiration and creativity who can’t reach to other abilities. Intimately I am one of the other group, the less special, the commoners, those who don’t crave for laurels. At age 35, pregnant with my third child, I started scribbling pastel and tempera landscapes.. The explosion of something unknown to me at that age, a trail of mature emotions flowing with neither order nor shame. A brush with no prejudice and without having to undergo any discretion. That innocent drunkenness was the antithesis of my comfort zone, the little responsibility of an apprentice, the privilege of experimentation that only ignorance can bestow. All this was happening until I ran into oil. We exerted a mutual seduction, which ended up getting me out of the pastime level. I searched, by necessity, the guidance of my elders in the discovery of this practice. That was how I joined the workshops and schools, at the turn of the century; there I could forge a modest mastery of the material, train its textures, deal with its geographies, moderating its viscosity. Simultaneously, without forcing my preferences or tastes, I was involving myself with the human body, the female. I have been painting for twenty years now. I paint, either candidly or cunningly. In my paintings one can hear a Levantine subtlety, or smell the pacific breeze. Old burlap fabric serves to cover the eyes of the stormy sands. Warm colored spots escorting the grays, giving birth to multiple anatomies clinging to their environment. I paint, seeking to transform the fabric into a mirror, with the naked body as the best of my excuses. I say well, an excuse, for the fate of these cloths is unknown even to me. The fate of my work is diverse, as can be understood. Probably they are never completed, or are terminated and then completed again whenever the viewer emerges. The viewer’s will, his context, her insight and his energy are part of the paintings. The main thing is to feel something, beyond semantics. We even agree with indifference. The boundaries are drawn in the rejection, or in the integral involvement with the oscillation of the work. I have lived at different times, and the world has bribed me into several corners. Recent years have been technical and temperate, of exploration, where the male body has cleared new plains in the pictorial.