 Pamela Walt-Shauve shares out her feelings with unimaginable grace. She transforms them into bright strokes by means of tender brush… You just have to look at pictures, without fear to fright off other’s sentiments and not worrying about your owns.
Incarnation of pure feminine art, almost whim- I will paint what I think, perceive, what presentiment I have. Expressing in every picture not an idea, mind, analysis of something but intuition, transforming dense oil into bright feather of the Bird-Presentiment.
Where is the past, future, present of infinitely expanding and partitioning heart?
Whose is this black outline on anxious red? Nobody will have ever said …Not even author… Female feelings are yielding a little to analyse. Aliens rarely are admitted to the secrets of personal analytical process. And if somebody is admitted, that’s no more than the play openness.
Oil and canvas is another matter. It is possible to veil anything, offering the main as simple ornament. Observer will pass by without seeing camouflage and looking with interest at something green-beige.
You cannot understand personal realisation of Pamela Walt-Shauve without imagination. On the first view her decorative works (and they are very decorative) are nothing more than “visual row” which is very pleasant to look at. But who, apart from “decor expert”, would agree on this scant feature of art. And why anybody, just for the sake of embellishment, would take at all brush, mix pensively colours and dab the very first, most dangerous stroke of any colour on the clean canvas?
In expressing yourself is always the meaning… Though “meaning, ratio”, those are male words somehow. Woman does not need to motivate her desires with reason and if she does, it might be, that she is not frank enough. Pamela is frank; she simply mirrors and shows something, which she alone does understand, otherwise why those strange faces with slanting eyes. Where are they from? From reality? Of course not…. They are from inside. They break out from soul and stay personified, that their owner could get free of indistinctness…
The observer is left confused by strange conjunction of the hint of gloom with careless joy, though with the feeling of absolute frankness of author. First of all with the feeling that she is frank with herself… And he is only permitted to see what the woman’s view of life is.
Critical metamorphosis in its pure form… Process of transformation of emotion- presentiment into the real canvas… And nothing is explicit, nothing suggestive, but what is there most important – audacity and longing incarnated in life. Purely female logic-“I want, and I will do, as I wish, and as I feel”.
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