My art practice feels like the process of reading an infinite book looking for a blank page to fill. But, before I am given the pen I have some chapters to read. Like the book, each chapter is endless. I never got through the chapter on dramatic narrative, I keep going back looking for worthy subjects that are soaked with a true need to be expressed. Then I flick to the chapter on colour and expand my palette one pigment at a time, each one a world unto itself. Once I’m over saturated with colour I consider the chapter on composition. After reading for some time I get giddy, I grab the pen and start writing. After scratching and scumbling my way towards the half-glimpsed goal in my mind I realise I haven’t read enough yet, so I go back to the infinite book of painting and keep reading.