Two years ago Amy Winehouse died. I think she was a pretty amazing woman, with a lot of demons and a few angels. Her black beehive hair emerged in a painting I had been working on, on and off over the last couple of years, and I completed her portrait with face and shoulders. Circles that started out as flowers, now turned into her bubbling thoughts and ideas, haunting obsessions and drug induced trips. They could also be the rings her many drinks left behind on the canvas, or a red creative passion flowering from loins. And maybe it’s the tattoo ink flowing out of her body and returning it into a virgin canvas for her next big gig in the sky.
I’m fond of people like this.