A point that goes to the heart. And that most of all is not a point. A black butterfly dabbed onto the canvas. No, not dabbed- surfaced out of a many-layered background from which it has hatched. As if emerging from a chrysalis. Who knows how many butterflies remain hidden under the yellow-gray blend of color, beating their wings until they finally make their way into the air. And that are not butterflies at all.
Points that stretch out into lines, a bit frayes. And that at the same time are flowers, black-leaved, having opened in the night. Still damp from their freshly broken sepals. And that are not flowers. Merely brushstrokes, paint on paint, released for legend making.
And thus I stand before this painting- and also before Andrea Bischofs other paintings- unable to prevent the movement of a brush from giving rise to forms, for which I must invent everything else so as to perceive them as forms. But the brushstrokes demand that of me. And I, I cant help but give my imagination free reign.