sometimes she would crawl inside my skin, pushing here and there, grasping, pinching and poking- stretching me from the inside; and through her I learn better where I begin and where I end, where I break and where I gather up-
she curls up inside me like a curious fetus, a something without a name- my inner cave hiding wondrous images
Altamira caves and Lascaux. And then the Sistine Chapel…I can’t help feeling that between one and the other, something was lost. The Sistine Chapel to me looks needlessly excessive and decadent- crass; not the height but the dregs, like leftover grind and sugar in the bottom of a mug
maybe the best art we as a species have ever made, were created in darkness and silence-fugitive as drawings scrawled on an Australian boulder with the sap of a twig, or eroding under tropical rain
Most recent work
what burns is not Art.
what does not burn is not Art.
does the infant cradle the aged? or is the wasting on their deathbed
possess the infant?
a tree grows to sprout a seed in its maturity;
this seed, tiny and hard, contains all the lives of the tree
and promises a forest.
I grow older and older and I grow inward.
I grow less patient with those who don’t get IT-
explain an ocean to a lake?
simultaneously I grow more and more patient
with those who don’t get it. I stop explaining oceans-
and talk about their lakes
their sewage systems.
water is water
I have added a new step to my drawing process:
draw with my left hand, then both my left and right hand to warm up.
anything to break up my complacency , my routine.
and I’ve combined ink- wash and chalk,
wet and dry.
wet. and dry.
I continue to try to do something different every week
I have an ancestor who, due to violent physical trauma ( from one of the Wars), got unhinged- became homeless, wore rags, dug up tubers and ate fruits- lived off of what people in the town gave him, made bonfires and slept in the warm ash. My father used to go looking for him with me in tow- we would find him, and my father and he would just squat close to each other silently- the near-naked gaunt, long-haired old man with the stubborn square chin- my father with the same stubborn chin dressed in city clothes…I always felt that ancestor of mine did it for me, for us, so we wouldn’t have to do it ( be homeless, be hungry, be alone )
and sometimes now, at night – when the daily mundane worries of my adult life lifts off me and my bed like stale breath, from the loam of my semi-sleep I find myself in that man’s body: watching the town below from a hill, the grit of warm ash against my skin and the smell of burnt wood, the sounds coming from the town waking up, and this invisible lock clamped over my mouth
the townies used to mockingly call him “Tarzan”.
His real name was Bernan.
1/10- 1/16/15 ( some of these drawings were done with my left and right hand , simultaneously )
1. Don’t be complacent.
2. Think it through once, then make a decision- but stay nimble.
3. Less patience. More patience.
4. Know your values. Know your priorities.
5. Find the right people.
6. Go somewhere far away once a year.
7. Do something different once a week.
8. Do more art, see more art, talk more art.
9. Take care of your body.
10. What comes, comes. What stays, stays. What goes, goes.