Watching artist, Mick O’Dea, building up the layers of
colour that are in skin was a revelation to me.
Her skin is clear and white (as I see it);
he picks out the heat and cold
that is in her flesh.
So her belly is blue and green,
colours I have seen
where rubbish stirs in low tide.
She is a frame for the hanging
of a thousand colours.
They are inside each other,
wash in and out of each other;
overlapping, under-lapping.
They graze on each other,
slap, fall, meld, hide,
shimmer, swelter, drown;
no rules until completion.
The brush, searching for challenges,
rushes about the page putting out fires,
anxious for a thousand perfections.
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