Long ago, standing on the meandering ever changing shore, listening to the swelling seas roll crunching rocks in and out, in and out, watching heaving volumes of water rise and fall, rise and fall, then looking up to the vastness of storm left billowous clouds rising up and up and up into what looks to be a ceiling of slate blue but knowing it goes on into a vastness undefined, uncontained, limitless, then turning to see the rolling earth green toothpick spikes but knowing they are tall sentinels watching over the tiny rounded green plates feeding red globes of sour juice, the light mint green troll forests anchored to red granite ledges around which rain waters’ miniature rivers cascade feeding the iridescent mounds of soft cushiony carpets that follow the shapes of ancient boulders beneath the arching gravity defining branches that undulate, meander to twist into perches for creatures that chase and play and eat and know intimately a finely crafted world I just see and smell and sense. Long ago I learned I am but a blot of grease and water encircled and at times embraced by this magnificence, a magnitude that sparks imagination leaving fear behind.
Crafting and creating suck right now; the tenuous hold on skills needed to create gone on the mighty tide of human activity swept away by preoccupation and occupation for other endeavors less soul stirring but more immediate to circumvent soul crushing. Not being a painter of the humans’ ignoble spirit but that of what might help us glimpse our integrated, centered selves, I have been looking for order in chaos and failing. I rest my brush for these days.
Epiphany Whatever: There is painting the pretty face; there is painting the sweet, the, ‘Isnt that pretty?’ There is fun in copying the photograph rendering the lighthouse, the puffin. Is it satisfying? Is it art? What is your art? When do you do your art? What is it in relationship to the external?
