Feeling painting always strikes me as
what it must be like to have amnesia. Something appears
before you, as known to you as your own skin, yet in seeing
it for the first time its meaning, while so integral, also
lies just outside the ability to say its name. David Eddington’s
paintings have this effect on me. I know those places,
those textures, those colors and signs, I have lived David’s
paintings, and yet I find in them a constant discovery,
eternally strange. I showed a series of paintings of David’s
based on textiles. He let me hear the fabrics. I know no
greater compliment. Mine was a childhood devoid of organdy.
Upon seeing his paintings of organdy I burst into tears;
nostalgic , passionately involved, transported, remembering
something very deep and not at all of my own experience.
In his newest paintings, a similar map. More than places
of the heart, here, in them, are the places I’ve
touched, just beyond recall.