As I look, impressions and words layer like strata and something emerges in between. This is and; smuggled in the gaps between. Can I describe and with words, as marks on a surface describe without words? Can I write and without description of its use, and without description see what and is? I try with my eyes to see and without words and without description I try and’s essence on like a familiar garment, but with something strange about it. And after now it may forever be a stolen gown. I try to separate the garment from myself to no avail and I find myself in a new place. Here, before after there is and, and after and is here, still and. And I am and in this place that is and too.

We (the paintings and I) are here. As my senses penetrate surfaces something advances back toward me and I am now and here and not and. I am is. And in this light the layers are singular. We are as one and is. Among these paintings I have been and, and I have been is, reordered before and after and after after, which is now.

"I insist,” the painting says, "sit for a long time," the painting invites, "and see and. But see and means feel and with your eyes in the way that you can measure time by measuring what exists by what persists. From nothing, everything; shadows dance among blades of grass, across the weave of a blanket..

In this place, between these paintings (between me and is), I try now to describe without words as marks on a surface describe without words. But I’m not really trying because the words will not actually stop. Because the words are also and, now. As I am and, and is. I am tempted to ground myself, to establish important facts, dates, names: the now and the is of them. Though if I do, what, from here on, is?

Instead, I sharpen the chisels. One inch, half inch, the odd ones, the awl; all the implements used with time must be dulled with use in order to be sharpened again. They must stay sharpened in order to be dulled with time because time is, and the work is and, and also the work is, and time is and also.

What's important must be what is; recurring and unfolding over and over in plain sight. A collaboration is taking place, between the clock and I, and the shadows structured by window, framing a perspective of a familiar sentiment. Noticed again, noticed differently this time. These adjustments fold through days and the tools are worn and remade.

All of a sudden: Fall - Winter - Spring - another year - new remains all beneath now. But what is that hidden thing still - seen through my periphery? The now? Is it is? Is and revealed?