The poetic, is that of the unanswered accident of the avalanche, of the absurd death, and this absurd life. It is of good intentions and bad memories, the prejudices and the adolescent longings, the bullshit and the disappointment. It is the physical embodiment of misunderstanding. I paint because I can't get the experience in any other way but there are many more experiences that are equally satisfying to me and equally inept at answering all of my questions. They hover in an area that defies logic to me, but seem to be living, breathing, dying, and charming a world arrested in laughter, compassion, horror, beauty, and relics leaning towards the light and back into the dark.
And empty days like these are full of time to stare the color real until the perch slips off the sketchpad into the lake and darts for sedge. Bubbles of his going bloom along the surface. They give off definite odors hermits remember well.
- Richard Hugo - A History of the Sketch