Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Wants and Needs
One blistery winter storm, I asked my grandfather (Avi), Thorvalder to go to the store for much needed glue to complete a school project. Either his deafness or my poor explanation of what I wanted was the reason for his return with dressmaker’s coloured transfer paper, where you could draw on the back and lines of orange, green, purple, blue, yellow or red would show up on fabric. Having braved the blizzard for my benefit, he handed me this prize with his one yellow tooth brimming with accomplished joy. My 8 –year-old heart didn’t have the will to tell him the packet of drawing sheets was not what I asked for. I am recalling this now, remembering that what you think you want is not necessarily what you need.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Exhibit-v
Exhibit-v is how we find out what art is showing in Victoria, BC. The Exhibit-v blog, Exhibit-v website and Exhibit-v Facebook page is our most expedient way of finding out what is going on in this Capitol's art scene. Efren Quiroz informs us about openings, on-going exhibits and documents the shows and artist's point of view with his videography.
The Exhibit-v website is sleek and very userfriendly platform for showcasing Victoria, BC's art and events provocatively and faithfully.
"Exhibit-v provides an extensive monthly calendar of openings,ongoing art exhibitions and the most reliable list of art galleries in the community. Video clips of exhibitions and the people attending the events, as well as interviews with artists will enhance exposure for these visual arts events."
Write-Ups! features reviews of exhibitions that are current on the Exhibit-v blog. John Luna and Debora Alanna (that's me) as well as other TBA contributors share our insights in this ambitious and commendable on-line venture that celebrates and promotes artists in Victoria.
The Exhibit-v FB Fan page conveniently and comprehensively announces Victoria's art events, widening the public awareness of how to participate in this thiving art scene. Thank you, Efren!
The Exhibit-v website is sleek and very userfriendly platform for showcasing Victoria, BC's art and events provocatively and faithfully.
"Exhibit-v provides an extensive monthly calendar of openings,ongoing art exhibitions and the most reliable list of art galleries in the community. Video clips of exhibitions and the people attending the events, as well as interviews with artists will enhance exposure for these visual arts events."
Write-Ups! features reviews of exhibitions that are current on the Exhibit-v blog. John Luna and Debora Alanna (that's me) as well as other TBA contributors share our insights in this ambitious and commendable on-line venture that celebrates and promotes artists in Victoria.
The Exhibit-v FB Fan page conveniently and comprehensively announces Victoria's art events, widening the public awareness of how to participate in this thiving art scene. Thank you, Efren!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Letter Writing
Letter writing, whether on paper or computer screen is a practice that is, in my experience a difficult one for many people. I have acted as ‘ghost’ writer for many individuals, including executives, business managers and physicians, both ESL and those educated with English as a means of communicating. The ability to write words describing what one means to say, a seemingly simple act, is beyond the capacity of countless of those wanting to express themselves with letters.
However, for many that are capable, there is a persistent fear to have thoughts and feelings existing for others to read, and refer to; a letter becomes a testament to their perhaps changeable mind. Permanently existing, a letter, whether a personal or business communication, discloses thoughts and sentiments without the guile of gesture, inference of body language, and cleverness of tone of voice that a personal interaction or phone conversation would enable.
The time consuming undertaking of letter writing seems to continue to dwindle due to the expediency of texting and cellular communication. Although an avid email letter writer, I find myself affected and indulgent. The need or desire for speed supersedes the luxury of an enduring hand written letter. It is a loss I feel compelled to take responsibility for, as I too have succumb to promptness over the thriving grace of a letter that has had thoughts wrought through pen and paper.
However, for many that are capable, there is a persistent fear to have thoughts and feelings existing for others to read, and refer to; a letter becomes a testament to their perhaps changeable mind. Permanently existing, a letter, whether a personal or business communication, discloses thoughts and sentiments without the guile of gesture, inference of body language, and cleverness of tone of voice that a personal interaction or phone conversation would enable.
The time consuming undertaking of letter writing seems to continue to dwindle due to the expediency of texting and cellular communication. Although an avid email letter writer, I find myself affected and indulgent. The need or desire for speed supersedes the luxury of an enduring hand written letter. It is a loss I feel compelled to take responsibility for, as I too have succumb to promptness over the thriving grace of a letter that has had thoughts wrought through pen and paper.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Some things that influence me during my formative years...
Formative Years
Birth – Born 5 August after 6 extra weeks gestation, with umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, by Cesarean section; bottle fed with Carnation evaporated milk.
Age 1– Father, aged 32, decapitated when exiting vehicle in a snowstorm at a railway crossing, when confronted by an oncoming train; played in playpen made from wood planks, large enough for an adult to recline in.
Age 2– Daycare provided by grandparents, Icelandic settlers to the Interlake that did not speak English; became bilingual, learned to write with pen and ink – first letter: T.
Age 3 – Companion to my grandfather while planting the garden with potato pieces, sharpening tools in barn, drinking with buddies – was the camouflage to prevent discourse/reprimand on evils of drink by grandmother, singer of sagas; mother remarried.
Age 4 – Moved to small village of 600 people into a white, rented house; played in coal bin – fuel for house. Sister born prematurely; we started being cared for by a Polish nanny. Went to kindergarten, learnt about and delighted in using hands in flour paste to make art. Friends with first love, Ernie.
Age 5 – Moved to newly built house on river in same village; boated in container for mixing plaster on flooded fields. Saw Rodin at Winnipeg Art Gallery, and escorted from premises when found stroking statue’s penis; started making forts in river willows. Fed my sister black chalk, to see what would happen, and waited.
Age 6 – Witnessed step-father, planner, (vodka) and grandfather, builder, (rum) reciting poetry while playing chess, each intoxicated; observer of project development and completion: landscaping, breezeway, interior waterfall, plant conservatory. Saw first movie – ‘Swiss Family Robinson’, with mother - cost: 25 cents; started piano lessons. Constantly ill with 'childhood diseases - mumps, measles, rubella, whooping cough; read Nancy Drew books and learned to love to colour with Crayola crayons.
Age 7 – Spent school year with teacher that was cruel; spent many hours at principal’s office after being ‘strapped’. Grandparents were care givers during holidays when parents went on exotic holidays; given loose change to placate spirit. Learned to skate, and participated in winter carnivals with hair coiffed with rags into ringlets – got first ‘Barbie’, a clone – Oleg Cassini doll. Witnessed mother’s desolation after after death of 4th child, a brother who died hours after birth – saved from immediate death by breathing device designed and employed by step-father.
Age 8 – Was tortured in school with yardstick smacks, writing ‘lines’ and holding encyclopedias with arms outstretched - always had name in ‘black book’; “Strapping” was abolished; watched grandfather save house during brush fire. Played in mountain of sand dropped on neighbour’s yard. Watched mother ‘Roto-till’ and plant garden, feed it fertilizer; watched kingfishers and sandpipers on the riverbed flats; crossed footbridge over river. Drew murals of the Amazon.
Age 9 – Grandfather died of tetanus after amputating toe in lawnmower (he laughed walking to the hospital across the lawn for treatment) – nurse did not administer tetanus shot; grandmother sold house and moved to apartment above a store; started organ and ballet lessons; saved from step-father’s belt beatings at home by dog, an overweight golden lab named Bunsy; started to be administered Dial soap after swearing at parents.
Aged 10 – Learned to love science. Wanted to be a nuclear physicist; bought taxidermy animals from teacher. Won public speaking prize; won 4-H photography demonstration prize. Learned to volunteer through mother’s activities – Women’s Hospital Auxiliary, School Board trustee. Caught on fire while burning garbage in the incinerator – rolled to stifle fire. Began to cut grass for 3 hours a day every summer on a Toro sit-down mower.
Age 11 – Suffered loss of hearing from multiple ear infections while learning to swim off docks where boats dumped raw sewage. Wrote poems on top of parents’ roof, at the riverside while sitting on concrete slaps that were dumped to prevent flooding of the river – trees along the embankment had been removed to ‘beautify’ the village. Wrote a poem for the teacher at the end of school – he cried.
Birth – Born 5 August after 6 extra weeks gestation, with umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, by Cesarean section; bottle fed with Carnation evaporated milk.
Age 1– Father, aged 32, decapitated when exiting vehicle in a snowstorm at a railway crossing, when confronted by an oncoming train; played in playpen made from wood planks, large enough for an adult to recline in.
Age 2– Daycare provided by grandparents, Icelandic settlers to the Interlake that did not speak English; became bilingual, learned to write with pen and ink – first letter: T.
Age 3 – Companion to my grandfather while planting the garden with potato pieces, sharpening tools in barn, drinking with buddies – was the camouflage to prevent discourse/reprimand on evils of drink by grandmother, singer of sagas; mother remarried.
Age 4 – Moved to small village of 600 people into a white, rented house; played in coal bin – fuel for house. Sister born prematurely; we started being cared for by a Polish nanny. Went to kindergarten, learnt about and delighted in using hands in flour paste to make art. Friends with first love, Ernie.
Age 5 – Moved to newly built house on river in same village; boated in container for mixing plaster on flooded fields. Saw Rodin at Winnipeg Art Gallery, and escorted from premises when found stroking statue’s penis; started making forts in river willows. Fed my sister black chalk, to see what would happen, and waited.
Age 6 – Witnessed step-father, planner, (vodka) and grandfather, builder, (rum) reciting poetry while playing chess, each intoxicated; observer of project development and completion: landscaping, breezeway, interior waterfall, plant conservatory. Saw first movie – ‘Swiss Family Robinson’, with mother - cost: 25 cents; started piano lessons. Constantly ill with 'childhood diseases - mumps, measles, rubella, whooping cough; read Nancy Drew books and learned to love to colour with Crayola crayons.
Age 7 – Spent school year with teacher that was cruel; spent many hours at principal’s office after being ‘strapped’. Grandparents were care givers during holidays when parents went on exotic holidays; given loose change to placate spirit. Learned to skate, and participated in winter carnivals with hair coiffed with rags into ringlets – got first ‘Barbie’, a clone – Oleg Cassini doll. Witnessed mother’s desolation after after death of 4th child, a brother who died hours after birth – saved from immediate death by breathing device designed and employed by step-father.
Age 8 – Was tortured in school with yardstick smacks, writing ‘lines’ and holding encyclopedias with arms outstretched - always had name in ‘black book’; “Strapping” was abolished; watched grandfather save house during brush fire. Played in mountain of sand dropped on neighbour’s yard. Watched mother ‘Roto-till’ and plant garden, feed it fertilizer; watched kingfishers and sandpipers on the riverbed flats; crossed footbridge over river. Drew murals of the Amazon.
Age 9 – Grandfather died of tetanus after amputating toe in lawnmower (he laughed walking to the hospital across the lawn for treatment) – nurse did not administer tetanus shot; grandmother sold house and moved to apartment above a store; started organ and ballet lessons; saved from step-father’s belt beatings at home by dog, an overweight golden lab named Bunsy; started to be administered Dial soap after swearing at parents.
Aged 10 – Learned to love science. Wanted to be a nuclear physicist; bought taxidermy animals from teacher. Won public speaking prize; won 4-H photography demonstration prize. Learned to volunteer through mother’s activities – Women’s Hospital Auxiliary, School Board trustee. Caught on fire while burning garbage in the incinerator – rolled to stifle fire. Began to cut grass for 3 hours a day every summer on a Toro sit-down mower.
Age 11 – Suffered loss of hearing from multiple ear infections while learning to swim off docks where boats dumped raw sewage. Wrote poems on top of parents’ roof, at the riverside while sitting on concrete slaps that were dumped to prevent flooding of the river – trees along the embankment had been removed to ‘beautify’ the village. Wrote a poem for the teacher at the end of school – he cried.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Crafting Memory
http://www.flickr.com/photos/embellish4art/show/
Crafting memories, prying them from the jumble of images that dart and skip, viscous fluid of blinking eyes brings sounds and smells that tingle and tremble ears and nostrils. Lateral sequences can be extracted from 'global thinking', but the curse of ordering excerpts in time and space directs mindful censorship to edit out discomfort, where flashing imagery allows generous dwelling on lost and found syncopated feelings; all.
Bashing. Crescendoing recollections of touches forced to join with word phrases, waiting, vacant spaces of time to calibrate the emptiness with feelings... there is an attempt to push or playfully awaken associations. When coherency forms, new perceptions can emerge. Sometimes new images are created, not what existed, but what might have happened -should, could, would. Desires. Regrets. There, pictorial scenarios can be more powerful than what has transpired.
Backwards and forwards, those meanderings flow. Future probabilities, presence, presumption, peace intermingled with exasperation, exasperates the creation of memory.
Most importantly, for me, is the vast omnipresence of spirit that occupies me, charging up to shape and form structural dimensionality through this 'crafting' process. Sometimes, time and circumstance allows me to explain this loveliness in to sculpture, and I am grateful.
Crafting memories, prying them from the jumble of images that dart and skip, viscous fluid of blinking eyes brings sounds and smells that tingle and tremble ears and nostrils. Lateral sequences can be extracted from 'global thinking', but the curse of ordering excerpts in time and space directs mindful censorship to edit out discomfort, where flashing imagery allows generous dwelling on lost and found syncopated feelings; all.
Bashing. Crescendoing recollections of touches forced to join with word phrases, waiting, vacant spaces of time to calibrate the emptiness with feelings... there is an attempt to push or playfully awaken associations. When coherency forms, new perceptions can emerge. Sometimes new images are created, not what existed, but what might have happened -should, could, would. Desires. Regrets. There, pictorial scenarios can be more powerful than what has transpired.
Backwards and forwards, those meanderings flow. Future probabilities, presence, presumption, peace intermingled with exasperation, exasperates the creation of memory.
Most importantly, for me, is the vast omnipresence of spirit that occupies me, charging up to shape and form structural dimensionality through this 'crafting' process. Sometimes, time and circumstance allows me to explain this loveliness in to sculpture, and I am grateful.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Past Reviews - Some Published - Some Not
Hello readers of Embellish4art blog.
I have decided to post some of my art criticism - some articles were kindly published, others live here only. The published reviews' publishers are noted. All work is copywrite protected. If you want to use anything, please write me first for permission: d_alanna@yahoo.ca
If you would like to refer to them, kindly post my URL in your work. Thank you.
Debora Alanna.
The National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA) Sculpture Retrospective 1996
Published in Asian Sculpture News 1996, Editor – Ian Findlay-Brown. http://www.iht.com/articles/1995/06/26/magcon.php
http://www.worldsculpturenews.net/
By Debora K-M (aka Debora Alanna/ Miss Debora)
PLEASE NOTE: The links below seldom refer to the specific work described in this review.
The National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA) http://www.ngmaindia.gov.in/about_ngma.asp invited Latikat Katt http://www.dosco.org/news/2006/02/lalita_katt_holds_art_exhibiti.html#more , professor at the Jamia Millia Islamia University Jamia Nagar, New Delhi to curate an ambitious show of sculpture with work from the HGMA dating from 1833 to the present. The exhibition has revealed an extensive sculpture collection. The last comprehensive sculpture show the NGMA presented was in 1953 when the museum was inaugurated. Professor Katt, an instructor at the Jamil University successfully shows she understands the importance of revitalizing the public’s awareness of its modern sculptural heritage.
Intrinsically steeped in tradition, the consistent theme of this show as revealed in the sculpture is the artists’ experience that they are part of society that can draw from tradition but also must create something new for the world. This show is an overview of work from the last 50 years, produced in various materials and genres. The artists evoke pride in the crafts of the past, traditional materials, as well as show an evolution of sensibilities that sculptors are concerned with this century.
There are some stars in this show.
Abanindranath Tagor carved Personage in wood in 1940. http://www.sciy.org/blog/_archives/2005/10/3/1275976.html His playful yet austere miniature is an icon that pays homage to the complexity of the Indian character.
The wistful harlequinade-like work called Musical Construction (’67) by Dhanraj Bhagat combines the understanding of an Indian musical heritage with that of the experimentation of the 60’s international analytical musical musings.
http://www.hinduonnet.com/fline/fl1422/14220980.htm
Balbir Singh Katt’s (’67) piece When Man and Woman Perverted from His Glory (wood and stone) is the first work in the collection that used two disparate materials. The strength of this juxtaposition indicates the lead given to the blunt inception of the idea of self consciousness. http://www.lalitkala.gov.in/golden_jubilee/arties/view_large.asp
Several sculptures in the show exemplify India’s concern with the animal world. The carved Animal by Nagi Patel (’74) attends to India’s devotional ancestry to the animal realm. In Memory of the Lost Cow by Rajinder Tikki (’91) is most poignant; it is a testament to the future of India.
The developmental change in social history is perceived by S.G. Vidya Saakar in Mgail (’89) where an ornamental metal tree supports a woman on a swing. The hands of the swinger are dismembered.
The Pink Marble by Ramesh Pateria is a vertically positioned stone that is gouged, sawn, worn – evident is the pain of technological penetration, the affects mechanism has on traditional material and philosophy of art practise. http://www.lalitkala.gov.in/golden_jubilee/arties/view_large.asp
1994 Emerging by Gyan Singh adeptly addresses the theme of autonomy. http://www.lalitkala.gov.in/golden_jubilee/arties/view_large.asp
Deity by J. Swarminathan elegantly and poetically discloses spiritual wisdom. http://ezinearticles.com/?The-Everlasting-Beauty-of-Sculptures&id=1229436
View Through Emotion (’95) explicitly orders the chaos that this emerging national character is experiencing. Mrigendra Pratap Singh, with objectivity and gentility puts a rational matrix on intense disorder. http://www.financialexpress.com/news/Art-Of-Our-Times-Cheaper-And-Better/102786/
Madan Lal’s untitled marble and Brij Mohan Sharma’s untitled work acknowledges the consistent Indian capacity for sensuality and exoticism.
Professor Katt’s vision of India’s contemporary sculptural astuteness is not only evident from work chosen from the NGMA but is revealed in her own work, also part of the collection. Growth (’80) signifies the struggle and frustration of independence from preconceptions is experience, a challenge to all artists of the 21st century. A stunning, wood and leather bound catalogue, designed by Professor Katt, accompanies this show.
I highly recommend this exhibition.
*********************************************************************************
1996 Thiruvananthapuram, India
Sculptor Aryanad Rajendram is a 35-year-old Thiruvananthapuram artist that has recently carved a meticulously realistic portrait of the father of Greek medicine, Herodotus for the Medical College of Thiruvananthapuram. He has an additional commission there to carve another portrait, which he has begun with a more geometric panache than the highly graphic Herodotus bust. The second work is organized with exactitude, the rectangularity is precise. Yet this diversion of style cannot prepare the viewer for Rajendram’s contribution to the group show at the Thiruvananthapuram Museum Auditorium this past November. The transformation, a sculpture titled We, Leaders and Money is 3 feet of green coloured plaster of Paris, and exorcized tirade on the artist’s relationship to those artists that have (the money).
The murky green of this piece is the colour of resent, of jealousy. The leaders are watchful of their bounty, ‘We’ are resentful of their spoils.
The colour of the work can also be interpreted as the raw greenness that the work also projects – the easily deceived, inexperienced public, the unprepared, culturally untrained politicians, the artist’s new practice of emoting.
‘We’ (that don’t have the money) are heads squashed by a hierarchy of totemically arranged leaders. The totem also extends to protrusions that effectively look like an orthodox crucifix. An upwards growth and extension of power of the leaders is an affliction to be borne.
A moneybag, larger than any head, balances on the contorted upper most head of the ‘leaders’. The features of the leaders become more gargoyle-like as they move up to the top. The head directly under the money is almost unrecognizable in its twisting out from human shape. Money is in their domain, high above ‘we’, and the weight of it distorts their vision, their intelligence. Justification has influenced and depressed the attributes the leaders once had.
The thrust of the manipulation of the contorted faces, the abandon of craft and precision for volatile expressiveness makes the viewer wonder whether the same sculptor produced the stone and the plasterwork. There is no dispute that he did. The question is, is the subject of the plaster the reason the stone sculpture does not render more exuberance? The stone carving is of the utmost sincerity, the control exercised is not ridged – the features are exquisite.
There is an obvious restraint in the artist’s stone output. He surges to embody his frustrations, such as those exhibited in We the Leaders and Money. For example, although the work visually describes the significance of money, poised at the top of the sculpture, the artists’ anger prohibits a consistent fluidity of spirit in his work. Yet knowing the sculpture this artist has previously executed, one can only applaud the vivacity he has allowed himself to display and hope the lively energy will extend to his carving endeavours.
We, Leaders and Money is currently on display at the Salyan Art Gallery, Thiruvananthapuram.
I have decided to post some of my art criticism - some articles were kindly published, others live here only. The published reviews' publishers are noted. All work is copywrite protected. If you want to use anything, please write me first for permission: d_alanna@yahoo.ca
If you would like to refer to them, kindly post my URL in your work. Thank you.
Debora Alanna.
The National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA) Sculpture Retrospective 1996
Published in Asian Sculpture News 1996, Editor – Ian Findlay-Brown. http://www.iht.com/articles/1995/06/26/magcon.php
http://www.worldsculpturenews.net/
By Debora K-M (aka Debora Alanna/ Miss Debora)
PLEASE NOTE: The links below seldom refer to the specific work described in this review.
The National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA) http://www.ngmaindia.gov.in/about_ngma.asp invited Latikat Katt http://www.dosco.org/news/2006/02/lalita_katt_holds_art_exhibiti.html#more , professor at the Jamia Millia Islamia University Jamia Nagar, New Delhi to curate an ambitious show of sculpture with work from the HGMA dating from 1833 to the present. The exhibition has revealed an extensive sculpture collection. The last comprehensive sculpture show the NGMA presented was in 1953 when the museum was inaugurated. Professor Katt, an instructor at the Jamil University successfully shows she understands the importance of revitalizing the public’s awareness of its modern sculptural heritage.
Intrinsically steeped in tradition, the consistent theme of this show as revealed in the sculpture is the artists’ experience that they are part of society that can draw from tradition but also must create something new for the world. This show is an overview of work from the last 50 years, produced in various materials and genres. The artists evoke pride in the crafts of the past, traditional materials, as well as show an evolution of sensibilities that sculptors are concerned with this century.
There are some stars in this show.
Abanindranath Tagor carved Personage in wood in 1940. http://www.sciy.org/blog/_archives/2005/10/3/1275976.html His playful yet austere miniature is an icon that pays homage to the complexity of the Indian character.
The wistful harlequinade-like work called Musical Construction (’67) by Dhanraj Bhagat combines the understanding of an Indian musical heritage with that of the experimentation of the 60’s international analytical musical musings.
http://www.hinduonnet.com/fline/fl1422/14220980.htm
Balbir Singh Katt’s (’67) piece When Man and Woman Perverted from His Glory (wood and stone) is the first work in the collection that used two disparate materials. The strength of this juxtaposition indicates the lead given to the blunt inception of the idea of self consciousness. http://www.lalitkala.gov.in/golden_jubilee/arties/view_large.asp
Several sculptures in the show exemplify India’s concern with the animal world. The carved Animal by Nagi Patel (’74) attends to India’s devotional ancestry to the animal realm. In Memory of the Lost Cow by Rajinder Tikki (’91) is most poignant; it is a testament to the future of India.
The developmental change in social history is perceived by S.G. Vidya Saakar in Mgail (’89) where an ornamental metal tree supports a woman on a swing. The hands of the swinger are dismembered.
The Pink Marble by Ramesh Pateria is a vertically positioned stone that is gouged, sawn, worn – evident is the pain of technological penetration, the affects mechanism has on traditional material and philosophy of art practise. http://www.lalitkala.gov.in/golden_jubilee/arties/view_large.asp
1994 Emerging by Gyan Singh adeptly addresses the theme of autonomy. http://www.lalitkala.gov.in/golden_jubilee/arties/view_large.asp
Deity by J. Swarminathan elegantly and poetically discloses spiritual wisdom. http://ezinearticles.com/?The-Everlasting-Beauty-of-Sculptures&id=1229436
View Through Emotion (’95) explicitly orders the chaos that this emerging national character is experiencing. Mrigendra Pratap Singh, with objectivity and gentility puts a rational matrix on intense disorder. http://www.financialexpress.com/news/Art-Of-Our-Times-Cheaper-And-Better/102786/
Madan Lal’s untitled marble and Brij Mohan Sharma’s untitled work acknowledges the consistent Indian capacity for sensuality and exoticism.
Professor Katt’s vision of India’s contemporary sculptural astuteness is not only evident from work chosen from the NGMA but is revealed in her own work, also part of the collection. Growth (’80) signifies the struggle and frustration of independence from preconceptions is experience, a challenge to all artists of the 21st century. A stunning, wood and leather bound catalogue, designed by Professor Katt, accompanies this show.
I highly recommend this exhibition.
*********************************************************************************
1996 Thiruvananthapuram, India
Sculptor Aryanad Rajendram is a 35-year-old Thiruvananthapuram artist that has recently carved a meticulously realistic portrait of the father of Greek medicine, Herodotus for the Medical College of Thiruvananthapuram. He has an additional commission there to carve another portrait, which he has begun with a more geometric panache than the highly graphic Herodotus bust. The second work is organized with exactitude, the rectangularity is precise. Yet this diversion of style cannot prepare the viewer for Rajendram’s contribution to the group show at the Thiruvananthapuram Museum Auditorium this past November. The transformation, a sculpture titled We, Leaders and Money is 3 feet of green coloured plaster of Paris, and exorcized tirade on the artist’s relationship to those artists that have (the money).
The murky green of this piece is the colour of resent, of jealousy. The leaders are watchful of their bounty, ‘We’ are resentful of their spoils.
The colour of the work can also be interpreted as the raw greenness that the work also projects – the easily deceived, inexperienced public, the unprepared, culturally untrained politicians, the artist’s new practice of emoting.
‘We’ (that don’t have the money) are heads squashed by a hierarchy of totemically arranged leaders. The totem also extends to protrusions that effectively look like an orthodox crucifix. An upwards growth and extension of power of the leaders is an affliction to be borne.
A moneybag, larger than any head, balances on the contorted upper most head of the ‘leaders’. The features of the leaders become more gargoyle-like as they move up to the top. The head directly under the money is almost unrecognizable in its twisting out from human shape. Money is in their domain, high above ‘we’, and the weight of it distorts their vision, their intelligence. Justification has influenced and depressed the attributes the leaders once had.
The thrust of the manipulation of the contorted faces, the abandon of craft and precision for volatile expressiveness makes the viewer wonder whether the same sculptor produced the stone and the plasterwork. There is no dispute that he did. The question is, is the subject of the plaster the reason the stone sculpture does not render more exuberance? The stone carving is of the utmost sincerity, the control exercised is not ridged – the features are exquisite.
There is an obvious restraint in the artist’s stone output. He surges to embody his frustrations, such as those exhibited in We the Leaders and Money. For example, although the work visually describes the significance of money, poised at the top of the sculpture, the artists’ anger prohibits a consistent fluidity of spirit in his work. Yet knowing the sculpture this artist has previously executed, one can only applaud the vivacity he has allowed himself to display and hope the lively energy will extend to his carving endeavours.
We, Leaders and Money is currently on display at the Salyan Art Gallery, Thiruvananthapuram.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Can't Breathe
Craters of understanding
Understood?
Walking naked in my memory
Recollecting fine manipulation
In deep pits of consideration
Retreating into cavernous space
Finding wistful triangulation
Strangulation.
Understood?
Walking naked in my memory
Recollecting fine manipulation
In deep pits of consideration
Retreating into cavernous space
Finding wistful triangulation
Strangulation.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Months, Days, Years
Months are predicted on the days, and the days define the year. What will I remember this year being about?
Stagnation, redefinition, lunging towards and away from dolour...that heartbreaking sorrow, cultivated by the relationship that I need to release.
So far and farther...
Confabulation. Not my style.
Substance, conversation.
It's about understanding...
Talking 'small talk'?
Quirky and vague. I cannot prattle.
Fabricate a memory? Too much work.
Trust. Trust? Dubiety is gone. I no longer have any doubt.
I need a new horizon, fresh stories, suprising escapades, amazing reverie, wonderful opportunies for mysterious and joyful, expansive dimensions...
Stagnation, redefinition, lunging towards and away from dolour...that heartbreaking sorrow, cultivated by the relationship that I need to release.
So far and farther...
Confabulation. Not my style.
Substance, conversation.
It's about understanding...
Talking 'small talk'?
Quirky and vague. I cannot prattle.
Fabricate a memory? Too much work.
Trust. Trust? Dubiety is gone. I no longer have any doubt.
I need a new horizon, fresh stories, suprising escapades, amazing reverie, wonderful opportunies for mysterious and joyful, expansive dimensions...
Sunday, March 02, 2008
As He Lay Sleeping - Introduction
THis is a draft of a collection of poetry and stories I have written for the past 10 years.
As He Lay Sleeping
Introduction
Figuration dominates. A form of a human being shapes itself under the covers, reclining into dreams. There are times when a wink is a sigh, and feigning sleep when none is to be experienced becomes a ritual or habit, of life as a lie. A simple thing as pretending to be sleeping, yet remaining in repose anyway can dissolve away desire for life’s pleasures. Insomnia becomes a sleeping soul.
There are those that give us solace, and resistance to their power is futile. That comfort and acceptance will drive us to accept ourselves, believe in ourselves, and work miracles with our talents. Ignoring our gifts creates weight of frustrating circumstances. Lying to ourselves and to others covers our feelings of inadequacy. On-going deceit generates a need to doze, to lie down and sink into the console of a sofa or bed. The stories need consistency, plausibility, and especially, a degree of excitement to grab the listener, a story to convince the listener, which benefits the teller by releasing doubt. When these lies are told for years, the succour that was once found in a willing, kind believer is desecrated. Laying down a friendship to support a habit of deceit is a tragedy.
Here, is a tale, a story of transition and love, of worship chained to greed, and affection transformed. Questions are unanswerable, as the questions are vague transitory emotions that explode into events. The questioned becomes inventive in order to answer with élan, leading with a lie, preventing a truth from holding him, imprisoning him.
Somnambulist? No. The sleeper is conscious. But as he lay sleeping...
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Getting there and back...
ANGEL - 3D Scan - Raw
- Comforting, is the knowledge that once an idea is born, there is hope that it will come to some form of existence.
You have to have an idea of what you are going to do, but it should be a vague idea. ~Pablo Picasso
If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it. ~Albert Einstein
An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy to be called an idea at all. ~Elbert Hubbard
Saturday, September 04, 2004
Hurricane Warning
My aunt lives in Florida. Earlier, forecasts predicted an east coast disaster. Now the 'cane' seems to be on a western coast finish. Yikes! The CNN weather plotting shows that Frances will hover over Tampa tomorrow. All people affected by natural disasters have my sympathy. However, when the safety of one of my own seems to be threatened, emotions rise to the peak of concern.
I am a lover of severe weather. The tremendous tree shattering thunderstorms of my youth, pelting rain pinching my hair follicles, magnificent, blinding blizzards that blanketed the entire house with shelves of snow, golf ball sized hail stones pounding the terrain to smithereens, flooding river gulping the banks away in a night , a prairie brush fire devouring all grasses in a second, any tree in a minute... All these I have witnessed. I have found these acts of nature enthralling. High winds have been especially exciting to me. I enjoyed the sting of airborne dirt nip at my cheeks, the push of the force swaying me off balance. If I was in danger, I did not feel it. Yet the power and devastation of a hurricane has remained distant to me, an event that was read about, televised and confronted vicariously. Now, a loved one can be hurt, or worse. I find my senses numbed, my inability to act on her behalf upsetting. She has been a resourceful woman. Surely she will prevail. I need to believe this.
I am a lover of severe weather. The tremendous tree shattering thunderstorms of my youth, pelting rain pinching my hair follicles, magnificent, blinding blizzards that blanketed the entire house with shelves of snow, golf ball sized hail stones pounding the terrain to smithereens, flooding river gulping the banks away in a night , a prairie brush fire devouring all grasses in a second, any tree in a minute... All these I have witnessed. I have found these acts of nature enthralling. High winds have been especially exciting to me. I enjoyed the sting of airborne dirt nip at my cheeks, the push of the force swaying me off balance. If I was in danger, I did not feel it. Yet the power and devastation of a hurricane has remained distant to me, an event that was read about, televised and confronted vicariously. Now, a loved one can be hurt, or worse. I find my senses numbed, my inability to act on her behalf upsetting. She has been a resourceful woman. Surely she will prevail. I need to believe this.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
De-boraing
It's a crafty scenario.
Daughter and mother chat. Mother speaks. Daughter listens. Polite interchange. Conversation ends.
What volumes were not said. Another year to wait for the next quasi-conversation? Are all imagined evils white and motorized? Are all failures someone's fault? I can't imagine that any occurrence of monetary interchange can be all good or all bad. I can't believe all giving is for naught. I can't believe all resistance is formidable.
Selective memory is an astoundingly powerful tool to rearrange the past for one's self-preservation, supposedly. Privately, I have ascertained that weakness can be the dismissal of all familial ties, rearrangement of the facts to prevent the possibility of remembering the love, feeling the love.
This operation is a puzzle cube that only the angels can solve. The 'run-away bunny' hops, but will not be caught. Just found. Silent night and day, again and stored in the book of best forgotten moments. Life is too short to forget. I cannot pat the bunny, but I can keep the phone connected.
Daughter and mother chat. Mother speaks. Daughter listens. Polite interchange. Conversation ends.
What volumes were not said. Another year to wait for the next quasi-conversation? Are all imagined evils white and motorized? Are all failures someone's fault? I can't imagine that any occurrence of monetary interchange can be all good or all bad. I can't believe all giving is for naught. I can't believe all resistance is formidable.
Selective memory is an astoundingly powerful tool to rearrange the past for one's self-preservation, supposedly. Privately, I have ascertained that weakness can be the dismissal of all familial ties, rearrangement of the facts to prevent the possibility of remembering the love, feeling the love.
This operation is a puzzle cube that only the angels can solve. The 'run-away bunny' hops, but will not be caught. Just found. Silent night and day, again and stored in the book of best forgotten moments. Life is too short to forget. I cannot pat the bunny, but I can keep the phone connected.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
What I want
'They' say, "Ask to receive", "If you don't ask, you won't 'get'. "Be careful of what you wish for... You might get it!".
The premise is - if you don't articulate your wishes, needs, desires, if the cosmos doesn't hear your soul's preferences, you won't allow the delivery/experience of your most cherished wishes to occur. Speak to be heard. Seems simple.
Here's what I want: (my prayer begins here...)
1. I want to write for money, earning enough to make my travel and all my dreams and family's dreams come true; I want this to endure for at least 3 decades.
a. I want to write for people that appreciate my gifts without having to submit a resume.
b. I want to travel and write. I want to write and travel. I want to write about what I discover on my travels.
DETAILS: I want to meet people and tell their stories. I want to get paid for this privilege. I want compensation that will perpetuate this cycle, without financial hardship, with financial comfort, with enough money to support my family's/loved ones' needs and my dreams. (I have restated these dreams to make sure that this is heard, and that nothing of the complete wish is omitted.)
Also, and importantly integral to the above 'wish list'...
A. I want to be healthy, with all the energy, drive and integrity and more to spare to make all my dreams happen, and continue for decades.
B. I want a home to come back to after traveling; I want to share this home with my loved one, as we have discussed - dual studios on the ocean, surrounded by nature, to perpetuate our need for discovery of his science, technology and my art.
C. I want to always continue my education, perpetuate my art practice, and live without fear of poverty, infidelity, inadequacies and ignorance.
D. I want my loved ones to be healthy, happy, and be fulfilled, utilizing their gifts; I want to continue to be active in their lives.
E. I want to continue to laugh, be happy in my activities and pursuits, enjoy my loved ones, friends and family with humility, dignity and joy.
The premise is - if you don't articulate your wishes, needs, desires, if the cosmos doesn't hear your soul's preferences, you won't allow the delivery/experience of your most cherished wishes to occur. Speak to be heard. Seems simple.
Here's what I want: (my prayer begins here...)
1. I want to write for money, earning enough to make my travel and all my dreams and family's dreams come true; I want this to endure for at least 3 decades.
a. I want to write for people that appreciate my gifts without having to submit a resume.
b. I want to travel and write. I want to write and travel. I want to write about what I discover on my travels.
DETAILS: I want to meet people and tell their stories. I want to get paid for this privilege. I want compensation that will perpetuate this cycle, without financial hardship, with financial comfort, with enough money to support my family's/loved ones' needs and my dreams. (I have restated these dreams to make sure that this is heard, and that nothing of the complete wish is omitted.)
Also, and importantly integral to the above 'wish list'...
A. I want to be healthy, with all the energy, drive and integrity and more to spare to make all my dreams happen, and continue for decades.
B. I want a home to come back to after traveling; I want to share this home with my loved one, as we have discussed - dual studios on the ocean, surrounded by nature, to perpetuate our need for discovery of his science, technology and my art.
C. I want to always continue my education, perpetuate my art practice, and live without fear of poverty, infidelity, inadequacies and ignorance.
D. I want my loved ones to be healthy, happy, and be fulfilled, utilizing their gifts; I want to continue to be active in their lives.
E. I want to continue to laugh, be happy in my activities and pursuits, enjoy my loved ones, friends and family with humility, dignity and joy.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Chapter One
The door was locked from the inside.
Her door did not require a key to open it from the interior of her space. All she had to do was to want to turn the locking device counter clock-wise, and the door would open to her.
Would she find a reason to go out?
Her door did not require a key to open it from the interior of her space. All she had to do was to want to turn the locking device counter clock-wise, and the door would open to her.
Would she find a reason to go out?
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Sleepy people
Shutting my eyes at 2am and 2pm... Inbetween there are daydreams and nightmares... Finding a rhythm is a puzzle not found. The rut-tut-snoze of daily living is festering my equilibrium.
Doc's offices are not for me. Can do. Will do... Shall I forever be booking referrals, billing, cleaning speculums, ushering the patients, asking personal questions that is not my business to ask...? and an interview on Friday for a 'real job', not just practical slave labour... How shall I convince myself I am the best for the world I do not want to participate in... Begin with the end in mind, so says the self-help books. I am not a self-help aficionado, but I do occasionally flip those self-motivating pages in a browse of mega stores... This line comes from Covey himself, guru of the 7 steps to effectiveness in one's life. So far, his steps have not lead me to the best possible scenario of my dream life. Maybe I need to write the book that addresses my own needs.
So many people to thank...
My dear 'graces' are so patient. My friends and networking contacts have accessed worlds beyond my ability to do so. (I am still trying to understand why and how I fit into these milieus.) My grenouille, a pet.
Still, my groggyness prohibits liveliness and this I must disect. When I know, I can act...
Doc's offices are not for me. Can do. Will do... Shall I forever be booking referrals, billing, cleaning speculums, ushering the patients, asking personal questions that is not my business to ask...? and an interview on Friday for a 'real job', not just practical slave labour... How shall I convince myself I am the best for the world I do not want to participate in... Begin with the end in mind, so says the self-help books. I am not a self-help aficionado, but I do occasionally flip those self-motivating pages in a browse of mega stores... This line comes from Covey himself, guru of the 7 steps to effectiveness in one's life. So far, his steps have not lead me to the best possible scenario of my dream life. Maybe I need to write the book that addresses my own needs.
So many people to thank...
My dear 'graces' are so patient. My friends and networking contacts have accessed worlds beyond my ability to do so. (I am still trying to understand why and how I fit into these milieus.) My grenouille, a pet.
Still, my groggyness prohibits liveliness and this I must disect. When I know, I can act...
Friday, June 04, 2004
Drill
Somebody once said that the way to your heart is through your mind. There is another thought... It is through your stomach? That I could never condone. Somehow, when I heard a true story tonight of loss of a life, the stomach pitched and the mind cornered itself into my heartbeat rhythm.
The story has been told in various ways...
He was on his way to work
It was 5 am
It was a '53 Ausin with a 'death trap' door
He worked as a meat packer or he worked on the railroad
He was a medical student
He had just passed his exams
He was alone
He was with friends
The friends were on the water tower
It was a snow storm
The train was coming
He saw the train and drove into it
He saw the train and jumped out of the car
He saw the train and rolled under it
The train decapitated him
He had a wife
His wife was buying a dress for a party
He was going to celebrate
They had just finished celebrating
His wife had to see the body
His ring was scored with scratches
He had a baby
His baby was 7 months old
He was 32
He was celebrating
He passed his medical exams
It was March 5
He was drunk
He was hangover
He was late
He was dead
He died in the morning
He died on the way to the to work
He died after the party
He died and the world changed
Love is everything?
Love won't cork the bottle
Love won't keep me from not knowing
Heart and mind need to stay together.
The story has been told in various ways...
He was on his way to work
It was 5 am
It was a '53 Ausin with a 'death trap' door
He worked as a meat packer or he worked on the railroad
He was a medical student
He had just passed his exams
He was alone
He was with friends
The friends were on the water tower
It was a snow storm
The train was coming
He saw the train and drove into it
He saw the train and jumped out of the car
He saw the train and rolled under it
The train decapitated him
He had a wife
His wife was buying a dress for a party
He was going to celebrate
They had just finished celebrating
His wife had to see the body
His ring was scored with scratches
He had a baby
His baby was 7 months old
He was 32
He was celebrating
He passed his medical exams
It was March 5
He was drunk
He was hangover
He was late
He was dead
He died in the morning
He died on the way to the to work
He died after the party
He died and the world changed
Love is everything?
Love won't cork the bottle
Love won't keep me from not knowing
Heart and mind need to stay together.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Whence
Goodness. So many eons since I blogged. And as it was a day of serendipity, it seems appropriate to blog it out...
Leave it to me to stumble upon the past with such clarity that I forgot how to keep searching for the present tense. The net of the succinct numbers were the key. 1530. How could one have guessed the trump. And yet it was the magic number. Perhaps not magic, just a thrust in a future direction that circumvents the past... the circular universal transition where the arcs pass but don't touch. It was a surprise to see the distant future pass before my eyes; it smacked of oddness. No newness, just wonder. Could this be a direction? - I am doubting my direction, as always. I am a curious as the proverbial lioness. I love to explore.
The 3 muses are circling my imagination these days. They are the gifts of a dream where I was bestowed with life and gratitude. The harmonies they offer their worlds are remarkable to me. East, more East and farther East they live. Still, they circle my heart, tho the silence is often a tumult of vibration in my soul. I steady myself with lovingness at their accomplished lives. So much done, and will be done by them. Da la de. The trick is to desire nothing. All stays calm.
And so will the valiant charger hold the staff of the snake?! The province may think so, but will the nation?! And will the taming of the serpent be enough to fortify the melancholy boredom? Metal plates in hand these days, and torches to melt them doesn't seem the likely means to forging a medical practice. Stranger things have happened, I know, but telling it like it is will be and is unbelievable to most. It make me laugh. I am happy to be the witness to such contradiction. I enjoy the disbelief. People are so set on the norm. How bored they must be to need normality.
I seem to have fallen into my need for contrariness also. The practical. The expected necessity. The bizarre inability to be placed by society. I do not fit. I don't appear to not be able to fit. The reality is much different. Lakes fit into large dips in the earth. The oceans fit between continents. The sky does not fall. Mountains erode rather than move. I am definitely more like lava, spilling all over new terrain without the sea to cool me into place; the air will make me solid one day, but not before I have redefined the space I move through. And money is never to be found. Only those that discover the power of the fresh, the potential for re-development or evolved territory can cash in. I am a mystery to myself.
Leave it to me to stumble upon the past with such clarity that I forgot how to keep searching for the present tense. The net of the succinct numbers were the key. 1530. How could one have guessed the trump. And yet it was the magic number. Perhaps not magic, just a thrust in a future direction that circumvents the past... the circular universal transition where the arcs pass but don't touch. It was a surprise to see the distant future pass before my eyes; it smacked of oddness. No newness, just wonder. Could this be a direction? - I am doubting my direction, as always. I am a curious as the proverbial lioness. I love to explore.
The 3 muses are circling my imagination these days. They are the gifts of a dream where I was bestowed with life and gratitude. The harmonies they offer their worlds are remarkable to me. East, more East and farther East they live. Still, they circle my heart, tho the silence is often a tumult of vibration in my soul. I steady myself with lovingness at their accomplished lives. So much done, and will be done by them. Da la de. The trick is to desire nothing. All stays calm.
And so will the valiant charger hold the staff of the snake?! The province may think so, but will the nation?! And will the taming of the serpent be enough to fortify the melancholy boredom? Metal plates in hand these days, and torches to melt them doesn't seem the likely means to forging a medical practice. Stranger things have happened, I know, but telling it like it is will be and is unbelievable to most. It make me laugh. I am happy to be the witness to such contradiction. I enjoy the disbelief. People are so set on the norm. How bored they must be to need normality.
I seem to have fallen into my need for contrariness also. The practical. The expected necessity. The bizarre inability to be placed by society. I do not fit. I don't appear to not be able to fit. The reality is much different. Lakes fit into large dips in the earth. The oceans fit between continents. The sky does not fall. Mountains erode rather than move. I am definitely more like lava, spilling all over new terrain without the sea to cool me into place; the air will make me solid one day, but not before I have redefined the space I move through. And money is never to be found. Only those that discover the power of the fresh, the potential for re-development or evolved territory can cash in. I am a mystery to myself.
Saturday, June 07, 2003
Publishing
Seeing my words in print on the web is humbling. Craving acuity, I meander in my word bank with a hungry anticipation, and traffic noise is all that come to mind. A wisp of cold morning air from between trees enters a slight aperture to the towering cedars outside the window and caressess my cheek, lingering with the presumption that a day will be lived with some smiles.
I think of the piano lesson I will teach this afternoon to the cellist of 'THE WINKS'. A furtive act of obtaining a studio in the Academy will compel the student and myself to relish the hour or so of musical collaberation. Timing, titilations and brash key crashing will forge a new level of understanding of the instruments' requirements, and redress the need for parental and filial bonding. Memories are bound to infiltrate, reminding us of the kinder experiences we share. The meeting can be a trial of frustrated technique and yet there has always been a yearning for new discovery. I look forward to this event.
Breathing in the background was a subject of a story sequence I once wrote: While He Was Sleeping. The bound leather booklet has been hiding from me. The stored volume was dispersed with other books from my library, and this book was not found. I know it exists. Perhaps there will be a need for its return when I have it again in hand. I miss this place of description.
I think of the piano lesson I will teach this afternoon to the cellist of 'THE WINKS'. A furtive act of obtaining a studio in the Academy will compel the student and myself to relish the hour or so of musical collaberation. Timing, titilations and brash key crashing will forge a new level of understanding of the instruments' requirements, and redress the need for parental and filial bonding. Memories are bound to infiltrate, reminding us of the kinder experiences we share. The meeting can be a trial of frustrated technique and yet there has always been a yearning for new discovery. I look forward to this event.
Breathing in the background was a subject of a story sequence I once wrote: While He Was Sleeping. The bound leather booklet has been hiding from me. The stored volume was dispersed with other books from my library, and this book was not found. I know it exists. Perhaps there will be a need for its return when I have it again in hand. I miss this place of description.
June 7th
Good Morning, World.
This post originates from the west coast of Canada. This place is a conundrum to me, and I am marooned here for the time being. As I have something to say, usually, I want to share these thoughts with you.
Today is a sunny scorcher. Hot numbness, as today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I awoke with the memories of the last look, the pale blueness, inarticulate acknowledgement of camaraderie dwelling in a shocked awakening, knowing that I am still hearing what couldn't be said those years ago. I am driven to remember the sweat and stillness of a life fulfilled by loving. A rare gift.
Today is a waxy wane. Facing myself, the nub of my search to rekindle the art in me has brought me to this public revelation. And this act is much more frightening than solo travelling in a country far away, or exhibiting work to the cloister of the art aficionados. Organs are pressed into upright alignment, poised for the keyboard to flow. I walk away (mentally) as I would from a work in progress on the bench, tool in hand, and expecting to know how to proceed.
There is a 'leap of faith' that occurs with the greatest of joy when the muse guides and all is proceeding. Yet writing has been a latent development.
Poetry was the first love, and a discarded love. Prose revived itself from necessity. Art critic became a title, and a means of propelling myself into the nebulous intricacies of other's creative forces. This was mode endured an abrupt conclusion. Recently, writing for others has been the form of need. I want to rekindle the gentle art of self expression.
This post originates from the west coast of Canada. This place is a conundrum to me, and I am marooned here for the time being. As I have something to say, usually, I want to share these thoughts with you.
Today is a sunny scorcher. Hot numbness, as today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I awoke with the memories of the last look, the pale blueness, inarticulate acknowledgement of camaraderie dwelling in a shocked awakening, knowing that I am still hearing what couldn't be said those years ago. I am driven to remember the sweat and stillness of a life fulfilled by loving. A rare gift.
Today is a waxy wane. Facing myself, the nub of my search to rekindle the art in me has brought me to this public revelation. And this act is much more frightening than solo travelling in a country far away, or exhibiting work to the cloister of the art aficionados. Organs are pressed into upright alignment, poised for the keyboard to flow. I walk away (mentally) as I would from a work in progress on the bench, tool in hand, and expecting to know how to proceed.
There is a 'leap of faith' that occurs with the greatest of joy when the muse guides and all is proceeding. Yet writing has been a latent development.
Poetry was the first love, and a discarded love. Prose revived itself from necessity. Art critic became a title, and a means of propelling myself into the nebulous intricacies of other's creative forces. This was mode endured an abrupt conclusion. Recently, writing for others has been the form of need. I want to rekindle the gentle art of self expression.
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