As day stirs into wakefulness and light, The artist sees, or maybe feels and knows. By brick-and-mortar, sky, and cryolite – The water passing inland as it flows — The artist sees, or maybe feels and knows? The process is mysterious and wide — The water, passing inland as it flows, Knows how this works, … Continue reading "The Artist Sees, or Maybe Feels and Knows"
I look at paintings and I think How full and wondrous it must be To see or dream, and then to make That vision a reality. How I would love, with colored brush, To bring a world inside my mind To canvas for the world too see, And leave this drab gray one behind — … Continue reading "Assumptions (14)"
all life is either dancing, or the rests in between © Bezik | Dreamstime.com – Five Young Dancers In The Same Dance Costumes, Resting Sitting O Photo (“Young Dancers” – 8-3-2015)
Joy comes interlaced with pain Everywhere we are, or go; Golden childhood tales contain Match girls dying in the snow — All we think to say, or feel, Frozen days by sunlight graced — Bricks and mortar of what’s real: Joy and pain are Interlaced
There are many who have the proclivity To claim art has no real objectivity And it’s true, but it seems rather trivial To condemn as not-real the convivial
the first step is to be awash in everything you’re feeling, the second’s to become unhinged, with all your senses reeling, then finally you let it out, your griefs, your fear, your aching — with watercolor wandering, release is in the making
There’s no one more alive, absorbed – At least, that’s known to me – As when a child is drawing; Pure creativity Their line and color choices Are not convention’s slave: They draw because they want to And don’t have to behave
Entering for the first time, we saw a room, big and new, that smelled of newness and spare furniture; its most conspicuous feature was a series of brightly colored tiles covering most of the back wall. These followed no pattern my eyes could make out, but I was fascinated by them: it was as though, … Continue reading "Tiles"
I wanted to be an artist. Artists make entirely new things. Things people enjoy for the things themselves. Things that are intended to be used, but not used up. Too many parts of life – things, moments, relationships – get used up. I drew, colored and painted every spare moment, but art would not come. … Continue reading "Driftwood"