In order to make art I go places.
I walk down an abandoned street. This is my first night here. Some street. I pick up a twig, I notice a shred of a poster or a dusty store front that…
Light, colors, smells, accents. One thing follows another, leaving a taste of burned coffee in your mouth.
She laughs.
I start walking along the train tracks. Noticing a cart, I hear a phrase in a foreign, but somehow familiar language.
I pick a blade of grass. I chew it. I turn around. I walk another way.
I sit down. I sketch. I am hungry. What are they eating?
We are by the ocean and it’s windy, and napkins refuse to oblige. They fly away with the birds. So many birds around, all of them watching you, waiting for your leftovers.
I take a step. I sketch a face, a leg, a cup. One gesture does it. Will these beginnings survive my trip back home?
Sometimes they do. A quick sketch is like inhaling or exhaling something. For me art starts here, at the intersection with life.
Over the years I make:
Visual stories, some dense paintings, some minimal artwork, all of it created from the shreds of experiences.
Over the years I incorporate metamorphosis of found objects into my work, like:
“I wore this blouse for a while, but there is a place in this painting I want to cover, similar to covering a breast or a shoulder.”
“I looked at this newspaper so many times already… why not take it for a swim in the lake, right here on this canvas?
This lake has fish and it has a whale.
It is quite sunny but it will definitely rain.”

I tell tactile and visual stories.
You can’t quite put them in words.

Tamara Wasserman
Leap Day, 2012