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I take the idea and I wrestle with it.  I push it and pull it, squash and squeeze it until something comes out, a connection, an idea, a formation of thought I can work with physically.  I hide it, cover it over with my hand, pressing down on the image to force thought out the edge.  Measured steps towards disclosure.  Bend and watch it change.  Hang it from its corners, throttle its middle and hold it with the confident disinterest of a medical examiner. Crushed and presented, controlled and uncontrolled, revealing only what chance allows.  Revealing only the remains of what working through a problem means.  The painting is behind me, underneath me, on the floor.  The painting surrounds me, it is the painting.  The hand viewed external to its body is the painting.  The physical manifestation of thought.