The old off kilter art world seems to have found her balance It began running its simulation of light rising aside the sun. It began by stretching itself and pulling the overlays threw our eyes and heart then reaching above our heads on the rusted underside of our corrugated thoughts, now and then rising and falling like an out of breath forty eight double “D” stripper bra, intent on rubbing her owner the wrong way until some acknowledgement was milked out of her.
Maybe it’s more apt to be like the Roman Empire rising then falling from the taste of too much sweet red juice a saucy mixture of blood and sweat while these romans kneel over and over again on the catholic pews hoping for God or themselves to rise into resurrection. Just below the thick surface of our own 21 century corrugation of opportunity lye a deep syrupy blend of painted stimulation and inked up dreams, like a tattoo carved out a picture and words that blend into what will become our own demise. In this century artisan with our own repeated history of violence, love and hate, honor and dis honor will just like the renaissance of old shall now be forced to paint our own left foot. This world concedes to the furrows of ups and downs along the outstretched painted grounds and arms of our own pastels of humanity. We are this new world art.
As old off kilter art exposed herself to the slow caressing years of drawn out dawns her feelings deepened as they became softer, her touching a bit more gentle, her smell much more familiar, even the old scrapings and flakes caused by time and light against her broken bone finds her deepest inner regions of her soul in pain from her non-immortal cracking canvas. Maybe art begins like a small girl and over time becomes a self-fulfilled woman. On an empty canvases she exposes her most inner soul surprising us by arriving with all her guest unto you in her total magnificence. Of course we will endure the pain, the ridicule, the long and ominous of loneliness, we need to gaze upon her 16thcentury eyes and wonder, could this have been me?
Art is the fragrant design of a breath drawn back into itself and onto a human void causing the colorful paint of our soul to explode onto an empty canvas, this breath creates an un-restrictive fulfillment of awe. Is this the glory? Or is this life, is it art, is this the birthplace of your brush or pen? and will this alone know how to survive after the end. I don’t know how art began to make me soil myself, to follow those waterways cutting themselves onto the surface and edges of an artistic heart. To blind my eyes so graciously to the common. The gods each day spray these fragments of fragrances which exhilarate the born and rise within each painting, within each writing stroke, within the unrestricted vow placed upon the bow of each of our vessels. We each take colorful drinks handed to us and as an artist we drink against silence and the quiet numbing of our being. Remembering without the fathers of fighting, the callused hands carving out immortal statues, without the venues and the visions of Venus we all would have died in some lonely picturesque back alley trash can broke and unpainted. Only the grey to cover the coldest rain that stain the falling from heavens. Each splattering drop painting the words within us with the human aura borealis. Fighting the painful sounds of heaven crying.
“It’s fame one thinks it desires when in truth it’s the art that inspires”. Take as many failed prisoners as possible, feed them, nourish them, lift and love them with color and with texture, then return them to the cheap seats along the dank alleyways, next to the stank of the trash cans. If they are truly worthy they will find their own way to fame and fortune. Art has little time for immediate fame but lots of space for insanity. The rust moist mudded corrugated underside of our mind find its own share of crazy imitating art traveling awkwardly alone in the silence of this passionate time. Art falls into disrepair with the oldest and bluest of moons for that is when it can whistle into the lost ear of Van Gogh, and oh how the sunflowers will glow and shine and catch fire to the tune burning down every canvas in every painted room. Insanity has plenty of empty rooms, Art will catch fire and learn to breathe with the smoke, to lift off into the air, to color in the empty spaces of a rainbow. Live as if to become the ivory beauty of the David, or spill with Hemmingway the hot oily and hostile words, dance with the Duncan’s turning the moon walk into the Saturn Slide. Form is hungry as I am now. I must go and eat of dreams. The renaissance is being reborn, we are the paper written on, but we are torn.