An intimacy I did not realize, accumulated over hours and days passed by, as I felt around for the missing piece–sometimes cursing, sometimes crying, sometimes in a quiet joy–listening for the right color or word. Will this wax fuse to this oil? Will this image bond with this substrate? Will I use acrylic and sacrifice the luminosity of wax or use wax and sacrifice the dexterity of acrylic? Each piece took days, weeks–most of them–months, to come together. I have not, do not count the hours spent. They take the time they require. And through this process the intimacy developed, unbeknownst me.Read More
As a child, like most children, I was not much interested in designating the differences between ‘real’ and ‘not real’, (not to mention that much of what was considered ‘real’ by the adults around me seemed positively distasteful). I longed to know, to validate and discover, to make real and to follow the beauty, mystery, and luminosity that emerged unexpectedly in glimpses, at moments when the motivation to avoid punishment receded or the teacher looked away. This longing did not loosen its grip on me.Read More
1000 Jupiters could fit inside of the Sun.
The study of astrology, which I undertook to aid and augment understanding of divination and divinatory systems, has renewed my interest in astronomy. Last night I discovered the Edge of the Universe series on Netflix; it was a good scratch for the now on-going itch to learn more about space and celestial bodies. I usually enjoy having my mind blown and oftentimes a good science documentary will do just that. Watching this documentary, I realized with awe and glee, how absolutely inaccurate my vague and mostly self-constructed concept of planet and star relations was.Read More
About a mile and a half down the path from my attic rooms, (home since March) is Grey Matter Books, a maze of a used bookstore. I am feeling for threads, listening for the emergence of the voices that will guide fresh work, as winter descends upon the aftermath of my frenzied graduate studies.
The art section that I thought I was headed for is two rooms deep past multiple corridors of books, but I barely get past the register today.Read More
Today, for the second time, my work table performed the miracle of resurrection. B brought me a giant wasp nest from a work site, (a special thing to incorporate into projects). I asked him if he was sure nothing lived within.
Yep. he said. So we went to sleep. Woke up. Went downstairs to make pancakes.
A while later, I came back upstairs to get a thing and noticed that, ‘How strange! There is a wasp on the door. I haven’t seen a wasp in weeks.’
In the next instant, my brain made the connection: wasp = wasp nest.
I looked toward my table. The nest was crawling with wasps.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! I ran downstairs.
Downstairs, I encountered an expert wasp-bagger. The self-same man who delivered them, in fact. He said to me: ‘Impossible. They are all dead.’
Do the dead sting? I wondered.
These should-not-be-alive wasps did not sting. Us. But this was surely because there was an expert wasp-bagger/smasher on hand, (buddha forgive). ‘They are supposed to be dead.’ he said with the exquisite reason of a wasp-bagger.
‘I wonder what they think about supposed-to-be-dead.’ I thought as the nest flew out of the bag, off my third-floor porch and into the November morning.
More on the first resurrection later…
Last week, on the Autumnal Equinox, I led this immersive installation as part of my final graduate presentation at Goddard College in Port Townsend, Washington.Read More
i walk the path between. to my left four lanes of traffic. traffic. traffic. sometimes it rushes. sometimes it is like a black clot of oil. always impatient in its pursuit of some destination. my house, my studio is like a levee; on one side, this irritated flow of metal and mental, and then the other side.
the other side is ravens over cornstalks beginning to yellow and an indigo sky full of storm. i try not to prefer one side to the other. today i fail.
at my feet is an exodus. an envoy from the mythic mind? there is something that satisfies beauty in the burnt umber wings with black bars, the domed head like the globe of a frog’s eye. they often appear confused, made frantic perhaps by the mid-September heat or the crushed bodies of their allies nearby. many die on this modest road–the bicycle path.
They the envoy, make their journey, adorned in rich colors that speak jungles and remind me that size is always relative. they pull like a gauze veil the empty, ominous, winded quiet of the wild lands behind them. these whispers from the non-ordinary, softly approaching, quietly penetrating the racing mind.
is written on
it is to be read
on graven bones
and a thousand
the inner arcana
Not knowing, waiting and finding — though they may happen accidentally, aren’t accidents. They involve work and research. Not knowing isn’t ignorance. (Fear springs from ignorance.) Not knowing is a permissive and rigorous willingness to trust, leaving knowing in suspension, trusting in possibility without result, regarding as possible all manner of response. The responsibility of the artist […] is the practice of recognizing.
Divinatory Poetics describes a particular approach to composition: the cultivation of attention, entering in to a sort of lucid trance, experimentation with modes of thinking and angles of perspective.Read More
...Collage presumes a non-linear interpretation, as well as simultaneous and circular imagery that creates, "shocks". Collage emerges from the point at which desire and freedom hold sway [...] the sense of beauty that is sought is that defined by the surrealists: a break with past conventions and with rational thought.Read More