When I was a child, I would look out through my bedroom window, nose close to the old metal screen, smelling the dust of the day overlaid by redolent darkness. I would stare into the night and think about being inside and outside, about being large and small, about when and, mostly, about why. There must be answers there, I would insist to myself, and I felt that I could find them if only I knew how to form the questions. If the questions could transcend my words and, somehow, find their own magical shape, they might themselves shape the answers and I would be able to see and understand. I tried to place cold brass handles on the edges of infinity. I tried to unwind the noose of time and spread it out before me so that nails could be placed just so life along its length and find the place where time began. My young mind would fashion arrows of light and fire them into the darkness one by one, night after night, always to see them wink out just beyond in the void. It was always there. You must know. The precipice marking the abyss seemed always just at my feet, and the void itself, the abyss, forever dark, forever unforgiving, forever cruel, whispering, seemed to trace the arc of my arrows back through my eyes and watch me from inside watching it: neutral. That may have been the worst part. The abyss didn’t care, it merely was. I would tremble in fright and rage and fall within myself, and the void would follow me and I would be consumed.

     Now, as a man, I continue to live with the abyss: just there, beyond, and a little within myself as well, a residue from those nights so many years ago. And as a man I now seldom fashion arrows of light because I know too well the danger. I dare not show the void a way back into my mind. I am no longer shielded by childhood. I cannot move so swiftly in retreat nor bend without fear of falling.

     If you look closely into the eyes of the faces I paint, you may see that they have also faced the abyss. Some have found the magic forms for their questions and may have even given shape to the answers. But all are vigilant. All have heard the whispers. And they all know that the darkness still waits. And doesn’t care.

—LAWRENCE W. LEE, 1992

     I recall reading, many years ago, about a painter who was asked to explain one of his paintings. He reportedly replied: Lady, if I could explain it, I wouldn’t have had to paint it.

     I feel much the same way, recognizing that there is something inside me that chooses visualization to bring it to life. Otherwise, I'm sure that I would have become a writer. What I can tell you about The Orchid in particular and, in large part, the body of my work for the past 30 years, is that I have often incorporated some sort of cognitive dissonance in each image, whether it be a flower, butterfly, fish, bubble or other icon. These dissonances are what separate art from craft, in my view. They add a specific and unavoidable psychological component to each image that requires the engagement of the viewer and forces them, for good or ill, to complete each painting for me. They are forced to participate in the painting by confronting and attempting to resolve the dissonance in order to give the work meaning.

     If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then meaning is in the mind. This may be why so many of my collectors have chosen to make my work part of their lives... not necessarily because of my name or the colors I favor, or even the general subject of the painting, but because they have become a part of the work. The meaning of The Orchid is in my mind and cannot be shared. It is also in yours, and the meaning you have found is just as valid as mine, if not more so. I'm glad that you have resolved the dissonance of the shaman and the orchid, and thereby given it a meaning and life that I could not. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Lawrence W. Lee