This work takes its title and atmosphere from Joni Mitchell’s “Carey,” written in 1971 while she lived among the caves of Matala, Crete — a time of freedom, discovery, and the restless beauty of youth. I spent several weeks on Crete during that same summer of 1971, and the light, heat, and endless wind of the island have remained with me ever since. Those sensations — the chalky cliffs, the dry shimmer of air, and the sound of sea and language intertwined — are embedded in this piece.
Rendered in pale ochres, creams, and soft blues, the painting recalls the weathered stone and luminous sea of southern Crete. Linear traces move through veils of translucent paper like wind through fabric, echoing the rhythmic phrasing of Mitchell’s song:
“The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn’t sleep;
Oh, you know it sure is hard to leave here, Carey, but it’s really not my home.”
As in The Condition of Music series, this work seeks the point where sound becomes form — where rhythm, tone, and memory coexist in silence. The composition’s drifting lines and open intervals embody the improvisational flow of melody, the tension between belonging and departure.
Here, the condition of music is a state of memory carried by air — a harmony of light, sea, and distance. It is both a song and an echo of a summer long past, where art and life moved to the same rhythm as the wind from Africa.
- Collections: Portsmouth Solo - June 2024, The Condition of Music