Behind everything, there’s an eye. Up and to its right it looks, pupil dilated to fill almost all of its iris, transfixed by a small salmon circle in the upper left corner. The ‘everything’ this eye ignores is very similar to the eye itself. Circles, within circles, orbiting circles, all of them defiantly kaleidoscopic against the dark smears of the background. Each perfect circumference holds its own sense of gravity; they bend the black around themselves like tap water might curve around a spoon. Reflected in the iris there is a tentative dusting of white. Bright dots that could each portray another circle, if only we could reach the origin of their light more intimately, to take them in up close. This painting is Kandinsky exploding at me. This is also Kandinsky sitting next to me, excitedly pointing out at the fourth dimension, and whispering ‘look. Look how wonderful this is.’ / Looking through this painting I see scouts, my friends, camping. We’ve been taken out of tents, into