I said, “You are gods,
And all of you children of the Most High."
Psalms 82:6

Pure potential.  I cannot forget that I am.  Just that.  To say "I am" is enough, for it is all I can say and blessedly so.  My body is but a vessel and I am a gatherer.  You have said, "Open your mouth wide and I will fill it."  To You, I offer complete surrender.  Wild abandonment at Your command.  I wish to be all I am and ever will be. 

and so it goes.........

"You were born with wings"

Though I have not been one to quickly state one of the most obvious of all, the truth is, I know not who I am.  What I want.  Where I am going.  What I do know is that I have an infinite number of possibilities before me and I am moving.

“Oh soul,

you worry too much.

You have seen your own strength.

You have seen your own beauty.

You have seen your golden wings.

Of anything less,

why do you worry?

You are in truth

the soul, of the soul, of the soul.”

What is it I fear so much that I can hardly touch a pen to paper anymore.  What is it in me that begs me to stop before I begin.  WHen I want to do a million things at once--my head buzzing and bursting with thought--I am immobilized by some force I cannot yet pin down.  It is surely not the I but my mind which binds me and provides the puzzle game and rules of which I have little knowledge.  There is this wellspring within me that is coming forth again.  There is a threshold through which I cannot merely pass.  I must break through, blossom and not shudder.  It is to say we know nothing of ourselves if we are frightened by our own soul.  I shall not fear.  Not my mind.  Not my strength.  Nor all the beauty I contain.

“You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?”

And I do not wish to be a snake.

and so it goes.........

oh the words of when

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

the joy I feel is unmatched and I feel I pour forth an abundance of praise as I lift my face to the skies throw back my head and laugh at the absurdity of it all why must we feel as though each moment is the last when we will one day soon have an eternity in the sun periods I cannot stand and neither commas nor apostrophes will interrupt this spill of the pure unexplained bliss I cannot contain hide or smother I missed this writing and the stream of my words on a screen and the madness of my mind mirrored in these words I sing and type like terror

God is good.  Immanuel God with us.

and so it goes.........

That which cannot be lost, only found.

In a world that is always increasingly consuming, desiring to consume and to fill some void it believe exists, the "need" has arisen for the immediacy of things.  The desire has become less of a desire and more of a convenience; complacency has replaced the stirring in man's heart, it seems.  Art is now a thing to be seen in mass collections, no longer solely an all-consuming entity--surroundings, experience, history.  Legends one has only envisioned in dreams become displays in accessible glass cases and enclosed spaces with walls and windows and doors.  The art of the pilgrimage is now competing with the possibility for immediacy--the short trip to a gallery or museum.  Great masterpieces are not merely tangible objects on which the eyes might feast.  The great masterpieces have a soul; they were brought into this world by some oncecreator and continue to exist, becoming that much more wholly mastered as more of mankind becomes affected upon finding it.  There is a mystery behind the centuries of paint, varnish, and that ultimate canvas at its back.  The greatness precedes the discovery and only grows as one journeys to make it.

Once found, there is a presence one can only feel in viewing the work as it was intended.  In this, one is "becoming more aware of how [they] see, not just what [they] see."  Art is a living, breathing thing but it itself cannot move, only being able to move the things around it.

and so it goes.........

Untitled.

There is a voyage ahead of us,
I can feel its promise with the intensity of all my love,
There is a wall, and beyond that wall
The world.
Oh, don't let them stop you or rip it from
Your hands. Bleed first and ignore the cost later.
I promise in the end your beauty will be unspeakable
Thank you for the faith and fire. My wreckage
Burns with the viciousness of all cowards
And black questions, with the stench of tomorrow
But still,

—Still!
I will lift myself from it and praise every person
Who dropped me for nothing and made my heart
Writhe on glass splinters. Oh, how I believe in happiness.
Goodness as a monument in the wilderness, a pouring of chromatic
Light. Everywhere, light.
An unstoppable painting of worship in my blood.

and so it goes.........

ROUSE

Horizontally wooden with great, flat spaces of white ascending upwards—this was a space, which became a gallery, which might always be a canvas of sorts. It has been interesting to see its growth and altogether surprising one has not yet seen the walls breathing. The space seems to assume the shape of its purpose and has the capacity to be a vessel of many vessels. As the group passed through the halls in clusters, one saw its current form—the temporary home for several stirring minds and makers. ROUSE. Still, the collection of people traveled without much sound.

I will speak now.

and so it goes.........

Weight and waiting.

and so it goes.........

One and Three Chairs

and so it goes.........

Lack.

Where are you now, he says.  I stand on top of myself, I hear
myself answer.  I stand on myself like a hilltop and my life
is spread before me.  Does it surprise you, he asks.  I explain
that in our youth and for a long time after our youth we cannot
see our lives.  Because we are inside of that.  Because we can
see no shape to it, since we have nothing to compare it to.
We have not seen it grow and change because we are too close.
We don’t know the names of things that would bind them to us,
so we cannot feed on them.  One near the middle asks why not.
Because we don’t have the knack for eating what we are living.
Why is that? she asks.  Because we are too much in a hurry.

How do I find myself in these long stretches of glorydays and the nondescript hours?  I find myself lacking motion.  This thing within me is not so at peace and stirs chemicals and thoughts seeking some unbalanced equilibrium.  I am pulled forward by memory and drive and the momentum of almostfullyliving and yet, in wanting everything at once.

Irony.  I do not move.

I do not travel.  The desire to move is that which binds me in the house of infinite wait, and the gravity of gravity enters my consciousness.  I am held still by some numbness I cannot name.  I blame the medicine.  Easy.  Why can I still not shake this nothing?

Ordinarily I move.  I feel.  Lately I have felt so nearly numb that I cannot honestly remember the last time I felt strongly about something.  Anything.  Right now I want to cry, I cannot.  Strike something, break something.  I cannot.  I want to be held.  I won't.

                         And yet
                                                               here I sit

                                       in my chair

                                                 in this place that smells of ghosts.

and so it goes.........

Square One

It was to go backward, "to recreate art, to start from square one,"...beginning literally with squares and cubes.

and so it goes.........

Remembrance on a hilltop.

There is a world beyond these moments and the power of memory to document what is now past.  Life is a series of phases that meld together with perpetual forward motion and recollection.  This time upon us now—however much it may serve to mark the finality of things and the beginnings of others—is still yet another phase.  It is a transitional period, though far more distinct than those past; it is a shift from crawling and searching among others to walking, climbing, and discovering on one’s own.

I still cannot help but to mention the surge of gladness and warmth I feel when musing upon that which is now ahead.  There is a voyage before each one of us; I feel confident in this truth.  Growth knows no bounds; we begin as children—fledging things—and never emerge as fully grown beings.  The moment at which the forward and upward motion of life ceases is the peak that ought to never be reached.  We ought to never be wholly ripened but, rather, in an unbroken state of blossoming and ripening—to seek still more of ourselves, the infinite core ever-unfolding.  Memory is a weapon we wield as we fight for the years ahead to be our own.  Memory is a treasure that should not be lost.  Though today may symbolize the end of the days of our youth and the anxiousness to commence the life that awaits, the simplest of memories of times that gave even the subtlest stir in our hearts should not be dismissed.  Memory is also the thread intertwined with life—my own being no exception.

I have found the words of the American poet, Jack Gilbert, so very fitting for this moment.  “I stand on myself as a hilltop and my life is spread before me.”

and so it goes.........

(Non)stop motion.

Order must exist for there to ever be any consideration of flow.  It rests not in a state of stagnancy but of perpetual motion, mirroring the ever-stirring ideas within an individual. One must reconcile the desire for immediacy with the wait asked of them.  It would not make the least sense for life to be a stream of climaxes following one another, for then, after the initial few, all excitement and anticipation for the surge would fall away.  Subsequent moments of peakness would lose strength and meaning for the individual and life would become dull.

The strength of anticipation matches the magnitude of joy in the realization, so one is called to wait.  Time, however, should not see the artist in inactivity or immobility; they must be very much alive with continuous investment in the self and the work they ultimately generate.  The desire to create ought never to be suppressed in favor of the ease of surrender.  It takes courage to shake one’s head in answer to abandoning the craft and the life.

One must find a balance and solace in knowing such things.  There should be structure and form, but still always the freedom of thought in which the self moves without hindrance or doubt.  Self-assurance and organization of both space and time are the best tools to wield in the countless struggles of the artist.

Manage but do not micromanage time.  Do not compartmentalize ideas or space, or connections.  Find fitting systems.  Try your hands at many things; weigh most options.  Drink with eyes open.  Seek to never never never be a sponge.  Discover harmony.

and so it goes.........

Circularity.

Og hér ert þú, Glósóli.  And now you’re here, Glowing soul.  There is this thing at the core and a light tearing at my insides—and this is that which I call mine.  Above all things, know thyself.  Know thyself.  Life is a constant climb and struggle to hold the word “I”, while only even just beginning to wrap fingers around what all that means.  The artist is he who understands this clawing within him and embraces the process of releasing, remembering, and retaining all that he is.  Circulation of work must begin with the self, with the constant shifting, ever-growing body of thoughts and ideas suspended in the vessel.

To jump immediately into the public’s eye is suicide, as man is but a beginner in everything.  An amateur.  A fledgling.  He must first gather his wits about him and venture into that which makes him; he himself must discover the truths housed within the beautifully synchronized entanglement of chemicals and matter.  This sphere into which he enters in order to pursue requires much, asks more.  Solitude asks the very questions one can neither form nor answer.  But the artist ought to have no fear.

“I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Everything changes in every single way it can, and that holds especially true to one’s perception of the core.  It is the self that remains untouched and consciousness that grows in fullness.  Gradually, eyes are open to that surging thing within and man might begin to suspect his strength— to know the power of his voice, the invincibility of his memory, and the beauty of his ideas.  Once some time has been spent in introspection, as he continues to blossom and ripen in understanding, the creator may take steps in direction of the world.

The world, though, does not want him to succeed.  It seeks to destroy him, for the man who stands alone—the artist, the thinking individual—does not belong in the world as it is but is a being from the world as it should be.  The trappings of reality, however, hold him to this earth and so he embarks on the constant battle to remain himself.  The interconnectivity of everything demands that he live and react with all else, and the clawing thing at his center begs him to display that which resides within.  He never is to give away any piece of himself nor tell his secret of being; he is only to show—to participate in the flow of life and not be consumed by the masses.  His branches stretch out to mankind, just as his roots extend in self-knowledge.  He offers that much more of humanity—and, in turn, comes to know its nature more clearly—in the act.  Art, anything to be called a creation not excepting the self, spreads humanity.

The ease of the travel, however, depends entirely on the notion of relational aesthetics, and this foundation rests on the principle that the audience is not an audience.  All are human beings.  Painstakingly, with each exchange of words and ideas—with each human relationship, the perfect form of humanity and the motion of the world come close to being understood.  The artists cannot compromise their work—or their core—for the sake of others.  They must present everything as it is, as they see it, and not as they think society perceives.  Truth, then, is never abandoned.  And the voice of humanity carries on.

But, with this invitation to “come and see”, criticism is welcomed.  And, in this, the artist must be resilient.  He should not edify walls around his supposed monument of beliefs, though; rather, his mind should serve as a filter and find the things that agree with the core and the thoughts that challenge him to seek still more and become that much more himself.  He must persist, accepting the constancy of change by allowing the words of others to enter his space.  His hands are the tools of change, his mind and core their master.  The beauty of ideas, so long as they are never abandoned, lies in their capacity to be shaped and grow into themselves.  They are as a cool block of marble, each thought-provoked chisel mark creating the eventual sculpture, which was always to be made.  Time.  It takes time.

The sculpture—the emerging ideas—is a product of connection and the precursor to networking.  Mankind is a vast sea of intertwining webs spanning continents and oceans.  Once this resource starts to be tapped into, the power of a single thought and its author is amplified. Individual people, as drops in the great bucket, may resound.  Collisions are not to be sought unless they spark some larger mechanism for conceptualizing humanity.  True, too much of a good thing is bad, but just enough of the terrible is desired.  Negativity leads to thirst, and failure to hunger.  Growth.

There ought to always be motion, though, with forward velocity.  Others should be sought and collected as precious treasure, for it is the brothers who help to uncover the hidden rooms within the vaults of the mind.  They help the artist to awaken the sleeping notyetformed ideas and give still another wealth:  memory.  Experience and exchanges excite newness and resonate with already existent thoughts.  From interactions with the rest of mankind, the artist is able to speak more clearly and more fully comprehend the words.  He might come to address humanity.

and so it goes.........

For now, contradiction.

When understanding creativity becomes a science, all contradictions vanish and new ones arise.  To place something so free-moving as art is to impose the rules of black and white to the world as we know it.  It seems quite so, however, that this was entirely the aim of the article.

Within every mind there dwells a vault of notyetgiven ideas and notyetformed thoughts--a mix of disagreement and simultaneous harmony, having all sprung from one core.  The world is indeed black and white but not in an either/or fashion but, rather, this and that all at once.   Reality stands as a constant movie reel of contradictions and mankind finds itself always correct some anticipated unbalance solely because of the belief in opposites.  Since A is A, everything that is not A is an opposite and a contradiction within that frame.  A and not A cannot exist in harmony; there is constant tension for resolve.  In the Janusian process everything remains unresolved.  Beautifully moot and melodious.

Juxtaposed, science and art seem to contradict one another in any mention of their connectivity.  Scientists are creators.

and so it goes.........

All conflict and understanding.

The impossibility of finding balance within myself—an equilibrium of soul and thought within my very core—caused the word no to spring to the tip of my tongue as I followed the article down the length of its pages.  I find the idea of collectivism detestable and brotherhood deplorable, though I can rationalize their existence.  Society demands and requires groups to make sense of all that remains to be understood, especially in that which we call art.

Relational aesthetics calls the whole of mankind to come and see, to know there is a common thread running through humanity and tying the strings of Is.  In this way, the artist does not abandon that which should be held above all else:  the self.  A conglomerate of selves, in form of the word collective unit, group, allows outsiders to the work to see different parts of humanity and of the reality called the world revealed in the pieces pulled from each individual artist.  It is the self-formed mirror of the subconscious that permits the relation of one human being to another through two- or three-dimensional space.  The artwork has the tremendous capacity to reflect the human experience because its creation was all experience; its essence laid bare in the act.  Humanity can be seen in art so long as the painters, the sculptors, the photographs--even the amateurs--poured from the core in a simultaneous conscious and unconscious act of making.

Multiple authors, one piece.  Each being is a shadow of the form of humanity and enabling the shadows to be collected in one place, such as an artist group, gives a clearer sense of the form.  Collectivism, in this case, does not eliminate the man alone--the individual--but, rather, reveals a sea of souls within the oneness of a piece of art.  The unit is a temple and a transmogrifier, housing the separate selves in their untouched state and reshaping the individual cores into the mold of a unified whole.

and so it goes.........

Everything in its place.

See the world; know its people.  To see, to know that much more of humanity is a tremendous calling to which I will be forever climbing.  I wish to step behind the eyes of another people—another world—and, in that, find so much more distinctly the chord that plays through all mankind.  It is the thread intertwined with humanity itself, which proves there is something within the core of every being that is one and the same.  It is not the peoples who are different; rather, it is the face, the colors, the places, and experiences shaping the person’s form and life’s journey.  I wish to collect as many pieces of the world as I can so that I might form some semblance of pure humanity.  There are many things to which I aspire but, at the heart of it all, is a common theme:  I wish to give in the way only one human being can to another. To those suffering from diseases, needing the healing touch of another human being’s hand, I want to give.  To those without a voice, I wish to give words and form to their stories. It makes complete sense to me—and could not be otherwise—that I wish to pursue a degree in both an art and science and a minor in human studies.  People fascinate me and will never cease to intrigue.  I wish to capture, understand, renew, and enrich their lives in film, study, medicine and art.  Everything finds its place.

Ghana presents so many possibilities that once seemed unreachable. 

and so it goes.........

Finally.

and so it goes.........

New Weather

Today saw all greys and the vibrance of colour. It held the sort of rain that could not be anything but good and lovely and right. I walked to the Contemporary Art Museum under dripping leaves and across small puddles.

Finding New Weather within the walls, I ran the course of the wood-paneled floors, the white drywall. Three artists' work filled and yet were captured within doorless rooms. In the first, the charcoals of Robyn O'Neil were placed upon the verticals. An imposing form stood in center. Forever (Blank) Matter, it was entitled. It appeared as an intricate megalopolis perched upon and around and within a steep mountain of steel. The metal cage giving shape to matter was covered in the white buildings of nearlyevery architectural style.

That which we behold is but matter, substance—objects with mass occupying space. As artists and individuals, it is our calling and natural desire to give shape to organic matter, to resurrect forms the world should know.

The charcoal pieces were equally enthralling. Etchings and lines creating some idea of waves or wind or some other element were found throughout O'Neil's body of work. Even the sense of infinity and void could be had. They were otherworldly, haunting, and beautifully primitive. The drawings embodied atmospheres and other spheres and yet each spoke volumes of the ideas—harmony, pressure.

Through a more narrow hallway, smaller versions of the aforementioned greys lining the length, the space opened into still more. Another structure of Al-Hadid's stood, appearing to be suspended only by the empty space beneath it: The Edge of Destiny. Remaining blank space, the fantastical layers of montage collage hung.

and so it goes.........

Existence.

The world in which the reality is eyes and words and questions cannot accept simply that something exists. There must be proof of its being or having been and a reason for its being. An attempt to capture the essence of these somethings has led to the process of documentation, cataloguing, storing in archives. Art is an act—of love, of creating—and the creation itself, and it is this object the world beholds as almost theirs. The artist may live apart from mankind as a whole but in the desire to speak humanity, the body of their work ought to pass through the hands of society. In this way a oneness seeks to be found, a perfect oscillating pattern pulsing through people begs to be reached.

This experience cannot be had be it not for the evidence discovered in images of the art itself. These reproductions, always less than the things in themselves, ought to approach the near perfect form of the art. The ideas surging beneath, from which the work sprung, should be captured; the core of the artist should be plainly spattered and bared upon photopaper. Taking photographs of the pieces should fall upon the individual for it is they who speak need; they know which images reach the infinity of best. Precise mirror representations of artwork do not scream the truth of its existence. Always more than meets the eye; the creator knows.

Promotion, a primary purpose for the production of duplicates in images, falls greatly before that which the artist begs the eyes of man to see. One and one alone can determine existence.

and so it goes.........

Motion.

I cannot write lists they make me anxious I am so buzzing at this moment that I believe punctuation will be neglected for the entirety of this post I want to want and I want everything I see myself distinctly in one place then another and still even yet everywhere I catch glimpse of a fastforward five year I have continued trying my hand as an artist and have been holding the bow of my archer's arm increasingly steady I still move with the same momentum as before the same velocity and I have been to two more continents and several more countries seeing and remembering everything unfolding before me Germany Italy Iceland I have been accepted into a couple medical schools and stand before a great decision here or there I have been more on my own and less in a permanent home I have given much of my time to sleeplessness and the realities of the world serving people and meeting needs with all the humanity I can give I have gathered infinite memories of the things and people and places I have seen in my travels and they are scattered and pinned in a space that can only be mine I have never stopped moving and have completely the less staggering of my desires I have read more and spent less of my time and eyes gazing upon computers and ten years still ahead I am breathing more fully and fighting to seize that which I have dreamt medical school consumes hours days months and I still manage to find time for my art myself and the world

Suffice it to say, I want the world

For sake of the practice of this assignment, I will place my answers in organized structures as well:

Five years from now

• embarking on the journey and struggle that is medical school
• living on my own
• have greater knowledge of African history and culture
• traveling, seeing, giving, and remembering it all in film and memories
• expanded body of work
• overseas missionary work

Ten years

• tackling the necessities of medical school
• beginning practice
• extended missions work
• vast library of books and knowledge

This is how I see myself. I cannot say I am practical, only real and not wholly realistic. To see the things I want broken down is almost too much and never quite enough.

Soon:

• taking additional art classes to branch out more artistically
• learning the entirety of the human body, in a scientist's as well as artist's eyes
• resuming swimming on a regular basis
• finding a psychiatric hospital to volunteer at
• experimenting on my own with different media and new techniques, etc.
• attaining a healthy routine that is not entirely predictable
• learning more African history
• learning a new language (to read, preferably German)
• applying for more scholarships to study abroad and save up for medical school
• writing more, reading more
• more piano

Later:

• spending several weeks serving in another country
• learning a new language (to speak)
• applying for medical school
• leaving Florida
• finding the means to travel more
• creating a space to call my own
• adopting a child from overseas

and so it goes.........

Transformation: The Completion Delay Constant

Everything in its proper place, made immobile by epoxy, the construction is finished or very well ought to be. The kettle fell last night and now I gaze upon glue falling messily down glass. There is still work to be done, but I will abandon it for now. Let it lie.

Half-stumbling, half-gasping I realize I leave nothing unless unfinished. I allow the endless tension to drive the want, the thirst, for never a found idea, only seeking all in a staggering climb. My life, my work is constantly building, rebuilding. I destruct and move forward with everything and the "I".

and so it goes.........

Day.

The day she died no one looked, realized. Some bleak Tuesday in a season that did not matter, the unchanging wind greeted her as she crossed the threshold into the unordinary street. Her destination was no great concern; everything attempting to surround her was extraneous. Details meant nothing except to her eyes when they were held in her hands and carefully composed in etchings of memory. The events following and shaping what may be considered her life have been specifically and carefully eliminated from the words "Remember me". Her death went unnoticed because her presence was that of the Immortals. She had spent her minutes and hours as nothing other than wholly herself. The courage to speak the word "I" in a world that had forgotten painted her entire being in light and gave her eyes the flickering of seeing. It placed her in the sphere of the living and the vanishing of the vessel containing her soul and being did not throw her to the dead and lost. The pieces to which her thoughts and frail hands brought shape brought her no mention. An ordinary man would scream if his life work went unseen, but her art was infinitely more than enough because she could say 'I made it. Mine.' Not a soul had set foot in her studio or laid so much an eye on her work. And yet, many years following when her work was released, all felt they were looking upon what they had always been seeing. All the beauty and scenes she had drunk in with eyes of complete conscious appeared as explosions upon canvas. Her soul had cried out for humanity and in the endless waiting for the world to be as it should be. Critics mouths were cemented for the art gave form to the words and thoughts they had always failed to shape in their mouths. They gazed upon eternity and realized she had always been. Her name was phantomesque in books, yet her lifebeingart was forever written in ink and mankind.

Upon that which indicated mortality in view of the world—a single tombstone in a cemetery sea—her name was absent; she wished not to be sought. The word Glósóli interrupting its smooth surface was the only sign the stone was not merely stone. Nights saw the cold gray illuminated by a strange radiance, and, beneath Glósóli additional writing appeared: And now you're here, Glowing Soul.

and so it goes.........

Transformation: Inbetweens

Watches. Unused, untouched lightbulbs. Mirrors. Remnants of forgotten newspaper. A tea stain as sign of where one had been before.

Circularity in the shape of the original pieces of the tranformation, the broken time pieces, the mirrors points to the idea of infinity. Reflective surfaces are the endless span of time intertwined with life. All perception of time is lost when one leaves reality for the complacency found in artificial constructions of "happiness".

and so it goes.........

Transformation: The Beginnings

A copper teakettle. Generic white ceramic mug.

The impetus of the idea of the transformation and transformation of such ideas has been the constant and simultaneous frustration and compassion I feel toward humanity. Memories, connectivity, and the utter brilliance attached to untouched happiness—the pure and simple essence—collide with the motion of the world (or, at least, the world as it seems). Technoculture is pulling mankind in the way of perfection, while sacrificing any and all possibility of reaching such heights. A realm in which perfect happiness is attained has a void where the very form ought to lie. Synthetic happiness and mechanized hope lack.

The world feels stagnation because invention is securing that which it once sought. The departure from the search for simple pleasure in life has led to inaction as men participate in the monotony and endlessness that is a virtual world. Time is being poured into an infinite space. Ideas are spilled forth before they even yet come to be. One asks why humanity has fallen; it is giving to and loving the machines it creates and abandoning a sense of momentum.

Selection of these found objects lies within the cosmic sense of time. Time passing, time standing still before unblinking eyes on blank screens, behind which viridescent motherboards lie. Human contact and traces of the world as it once was have been replaced in favor of the convenience of the immediate synthetic connectivity given by the stretches of computer networks.

and so it goes.........

On crowded rooms and blank spaces.

I have been neglecting a blog. I never thought I would find myself in such a place I felt I must force myself to write, urge myself forward. I with my endless thought, stream of consciousness way of narrating my own existence. The hesitation was, perhaps, my desire to always wait until ideas spilled forth and words fell from my tongue; all the more while I sacrifice the boundless capacity found in the act of pouring. Limiting my own infinity and letting it fall prey to the world of lines, sticks, and bones. Letting my own resonance go unheard. Soon I will allow the maddening spiral in which I dwell, thrive, exist to run dry at the roots. I cannot continue like this.

We are, before all things, beginners. Stumbling into an accidental discussion—the smell of oranges penetrating my olfactory sphere—I found all staring at a blank canvas upon an even barer wall. I realized I was awakening once more to my own identity as an observer, a listener, a seeker of things. All that could be of seemingly nothing before my eyes in words and three dimension. The white square was skin and world and windows and beginnings. It was simultaneously not yet being and ceasing to be. Nothing and everything. We were seeing.

Sarah Sands.

The repetition of the sounds within her name brought with it the continuity and mess of all things. She posed the question 'what is it to see?' How much time do we spend looking, and when are we seeing.

Sarah began in a haze, finishing undergrad wandering to Spain. Her paintings were exactly as placed before her eyes. A series of windows revealed the act of seeing: through, into, past windows or mirrors. Realities reflected; realities seen. Yet still there existed a blur of edges and the potential motion accompanying. Soon Sands herself, now close to thirty, decided she must then go, if at all. Yale, grad school. The representational push of her work, sterile. Interest near vanished. Her labor of love, she claimed, had descended to the laborious, constant act of finishing. It was in composing, putting in time and self to a canvas, that she was moving. Experiencing. The art of experience and the experience of art in and of itself were intoxicating; she felt herself completely being just and the paintings simply were and are. Paintings are meaningless, she said; they are such that they passively sit upon walls. It was the actions themselves possessing gravity—creating and, its parallel, looking.

Some time away. A move to Indiana. She resumed painting, envious of the freedom of the explorers she taught and holding on to self-imposed rules. Her work took to a messy entanglement akin to the woods area through which she passed each day. The thickets in her memory and recorded on canvas were a nesting period; they comprised a series revealing the constancy of broken lines and the feeling of lost.

Later and her latest work grew as branches. The still forest she remembered so well was arrived at from elsewhere. The interwoven pattern of looms emerged in her paintings. Straight lines she painted as she told a story to herself. And then the phenomenon of stepping back and the continuous act of to-and-fro: walk up, paint, walk back, look, repeat. This was the connectivity of all artists.

Anyone watching the proceedings of the evening might have permitted fear to take hold of them. Ninety minutes spent on a thirty-six square inch panel and technical discussion. The intimidation of a perfect blank canvas before their eyes was too much. It is the conscious choice of the artist to exist. To settle for nothing less than being and to always begin.

and so it goes.........

To repeat.

Repetition may exist apart from monotony, each pattern becoming a series of infinitely changing pieces. All art is remnants, however unbroken; it is memory and soul on paper, on canvas, occupying three-dimensions of space. The immaculate blank page becomes both a looking glass through which one views the world within the mind of the creator and, yet even still, a world of its own.

The generation and regeneration of the fantastical worlds were neither kin to a genius nor madman, only a man. Franklyn Evans exposes imaginings in his exquisite watercolor work. A fragment of one became the start of another, each reuse bringing with it a refreshing newness.

This practice of recycling became an integral part to Evans' body of work. And, extending upon the idea of coming back to where one has begun, circularity was an ever-present fixture in his space.

and so it goes.........

Pursuit.

To me, becoming an artist and remaining as such has always been a pursuit, and the highest one at that. I have never regarded the form as a career, merely as an idea and an ideal in and of itself. That which I hold above all else is the infinity of seeking. To seek and seek and seek, always climbing and never remaining constant. It is to accept no other reality than one's own. Mankind, I believe has lost its consciousness of self, accepting other worlds as its own instead of hunting what they know to be true to the core. The road to artistry, at least in the sense of a profession, is continual progression—continual falling, stumbling, and reaching—but always forward motion. The existence of the artist is much the same; the pursuit of the vocation and the perfect form of the idea hinge fully upon the drive--the choice to be wholly your own and the momentum to push toward the things and times and places you desire beyond all others. Society does not exist except in the realm of necessary connections. Practicality and the gross idea of "normalcy" vanishes; reality and success are self-determined. An artist never bends their sphere to the world, never to another. To be molded to fill the form of another is to compromise the oneness of self and the cosmic sense of integrity. It is then and only then the artist has failed. And folded their hand.

and so it goes.........

"How beautiful you are, Earth, and how sublime!

How perfect is your obedience to the light, and
how noble is your submission to the sun!
How lovely you are, veiled in shadow, and how
charming your face, masked with obscurity!

How soothing is the song of your dawn, and how
harsh are the praises of your eventide!
How perfect you are, Earth, and how majestic!

I have walked over your plains, I have climbed your
stony mountains; I have descended into your valleys;
I have entered into your caves.
In the plains, I found your dream; upon the mountain
I found your pride; in the valley I witnessed your
tranquility; in the rocks your resolution; in the
cave your secrecy.

You are weak and powerful and humble and haughty.
You are pliant and rigid, and clear and secret.
I have ridden your seas and explored your rivers and
followed your brooks.
I hear Eternity speak through your ebb and flow,
and the ages echoing your songs among your hills.
I listened to life calling to life in your mountain
passes and along your slopes.
You are the mouth and lips of Eternity, the strings
and fingers of Time, the mystery and solution of
Life.
Your Spring has awakened me and led me to your fields
where your aromatic breath ascends like
incense.
I have seen the fruits of your Summer labor.
In Autumn, in your vineyards, I saw your
blood flow as wine.
Your Winter carried me into your bed, where the snow
attested your purity.
In your Spring you are an aromatic essence; in your
Summer you are generous; in your Autumn you are
a source of plenty.

One calm and clear night I opened the windows and
doors of my soul and went out to see you, my
heart tense with lust and greed.
And I saw you staring at the stars that smiled at
you. So I cast away my fetters, for I
found out that the dwelling place of the soul is in
your space.
Its desires grow in your desires; its peace rests in
your peace, and its happiness is in the golden
dust which the stars sprinkle upon your body.

One night, as the skies turned gray, and my soul was
wearied and anxious, I went out to you.
And you appeared to me like a giant, armed with
raging tempests, fighting the past with the present,
replacing the old with the new, and letting the
strong disperse the weak.

Whereupon I learned that the law of the people is
your law.
I learned that he who does not break his dry branches
with his tempest, will die wearily,
And he who does not use revolution, to strip
his dry leaves, will slowly perish.

How generous you are, Earth, and how strong is your
yearning for your children lost between that which
they have attained and that which they could not
obtain.
We clamor and you smile; we flit
but you stay!

We blaspheme and you consecrate.
We defile and you sanctify
We sleep without dreams; but you
dream in your eternal wakefulness.

We pierce your bosom with swords and spears,
And you dress our wounds with oil and balsam.
We plant your fields with skulls and bones,
and from them you rear cypress
and willow trees.

We empty our wastes in your bosom, and you fill
our threshing-floors with wheat sheaves, and
our winepresses with grapes.

We extract your elements to make cannons and
bombs, but out of our elements you create
lilies and roses.

How patient you are, Earth, and how merciful!
Are you an atom of dust raised by
the feet of God when He journeyed from the east
to the west of the Universe?
Or a spark projected from the furnace
of Eternity?
Are you a seed dropped in the field of the
firmament to become God's tree reaching above
the heavens with its celestial branches?
Or are you a drop of blood in the veins of the
giant of giants, or a bead of sweat upon his
brow?

Are you a fruit ripened by the sun?
Do you grow from the tree of Absolute
Knowledge, whose roots extend through
Eternity, and whose branches soar through
the Infinite?

Are you a jewel placed by the God of Time in the
palm of the God of Space?

Who are you, Earth, and what are you?
You are "I", Earth!

You are my sight and my discernment.
You are my knowledge and my
dream
You are my hunger and my thirst.
You are my sorrow and my joy.
You are my inadvertence and my wakefulness.
You are the beauty that lives in my eyes,
the longing in my heart, the everlasting life
in my soul.

You are "I", Earth.
Had it not been for my being,
You would not have been."

and so it goes.........