As I was reading about the relationships between Mathematics and Art the studio groaned like Tolkien's forest of trees.

The paintings move, they shift, press against each other. Sometimes it sounds like the snapping of a twig or the crack of bone, a sound I have learned, I have broken 10 bones in my life. I hear the cracking of things, like an egg on rim of bowl, they either are disturbances or reasons to listen, the primordial trying to crack through to you, the hidden holiness of things underneath fingernail or in dusty page of old book grandmother once gave to you as gift and the smells of another place existing still in your everyday place.

Sometimes I just scream out, I let out a noise beyond me, a shouting, a shrill, a sound of frustration penetrating my own soul. Then little child lays his head on your lap and the day becomes the yawning and tired body of that child, the frequent crying of that child, the snorting nose of that child, and then that little child lays down again, soon to be up and about again, hungry, coughing, craving, peeing on the seat, running to the call of nana.

I was reading that the human being when looking at a work of art craves both the emotional expression and the rational expression. I think that the artist is sometimes swamped in the feeling of the art itself, so wet and mucky that the art itself somehow explains itself, analyzes and unravels itself, rewinding and traversing through lines and lines of waiting minds, on the move and ready to water and plant in the soul of looker, which brings up the question, how long should we look at a work of art? If it is a strand of hair hung by a stand of dental floss from moldy ceiling, how long should we look at this?

We know not the artist, the artist is unaware of his/her exhibition, in a trance with their new work, or developing work, the assistants support the artists in this matter by carefully carrying art from studio to gallery. Some might say look until you yawn 10 times. Some might say look until the point where you do not blink. Some might say look until you "get it". I say look until you find your feet wandering to the next piece, eventually you will return, art is revolving, is cyclical, is the 21st century, is the beginning of time.

The brain itself is sacred ground. We call it mind. We call it memory. Somehow the soul and the Spirit and the heart are attachments of this mind. Maybe they are the inner layers and the outer tissues. Whatever it is, I wish I could see the colour of it ... maybe this is something I try to transform or translate into art, art as the image forever, unlike written language, it stays, it is not rewritten or reinterpreted, it just is.