Death is puzzling. Is its timing ever correct? Is it supposed to happen at that exact moment or has something been stolen from the dying? Is it pre-destined or is it completely random and unfair? Is death glorious or undignified? Should we be afraid of it or welcome, even celebrate, its arrival? What does it mean to be ready for death? Do we all actually leave behind, unfinished lives?

Nothing is fair or dignified about untimely deaths. Life is finite. Death is the end of life. It’s over.

It’s difficult to make any semblance of peace or sense with that. We, who continue to live, feel a burden so deep that we are allowed to continue. It disturbs our dreams and rattles our awakenings.

But we also know that our own day will come. And that we will have to ask ourselves whether we are ready to die now or whether we would have liked to stick around a bit longer. And whether we did everything we wanted to do and whether we did it right. Can’t we stay a bit longer to fix everything that needs fixing? Or will it all fix itself after we are gone? Do we, in fact, need to fix it before we go?

These paintings are homages to those around us who have been thrown into senseless mortal danger and lost. Every brushstroke, and invigorated and disturbed energy, describes my inner turmoil and desperate attempt to understand.

It is the why. And it is the goodbye.