In June I was in Europe. We took the bus a lot — long
hauls with 12, 13, 14 hour stretches all over.
My friend would always go straight to the back and hunker down
with his guitar. He’d play and really crush the notes.
He’d raise them up and then tear them down. It was savage,
brutal, graceful. His body rolled with it, jerked and convulsed.
He became a marionette on six strings. The music grew secondary
to the movement, a coalescing of both deliberation and force
majeure. It was a translation that succeeded his consciousness
and incidentally left a trail of notes - jazz.
Watching, I wanted to use paint similarly, not primarily as
a means to create something, but as a chance to move.
Nick Lepard, 2006
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