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Source

Art. ART. aRt. Art. ART. Does it matter where or what the source is? A world of contra distinctive Cultures, traditions practiced unknown to our eyes, methods of Creation, Reasons and Beliefs for Image and Idea and Moment.

Do we all draw from the cisterns of our own source? This source we say is our self, or our soul, or our intuition, drawn from our experience, or from some mysterious underground, maybe an underground like that where Gregory and Gabriel Syme had dropped into like falling down a chimney, a secret Catacomb where The Man who was Thursday would be chosen. We have Western, we have Eastern, we have islands undiscovered, jungles unhacked, Human Civilization within mountains. All of us are Humanity, yes, can we say? All of us Related? Connected? An Artist then Takes his Life, a woman's delicate hand molds a figure carrying a basket, artists take their life, their culture, or other culture, and reproduce it, make it Come Alive, give it pertinence, essence, Spirit, Truth, a Voice to humanity. Artists, we do this ... maybe with intent, maybe unconsciously.

Who do I claim to be? Do I affiliate myself with something? Some Religion? Some Belief? Some Absolute Truth? When I was young my parents took me and my family to a Baptist Church near my Town, and this Church, this church that flaked away in white paint, this Pastor, and the people there, said that the Truth was Found in Jesus Christ, and only Him ... but the poison was this, I believe, or say I believe, I think, that moralism or fundamentalism or legalism became the replacement for Love, for embracing the "sinner," it became the "reason" to turn away the drug addict or homeless man or prostitute on the doorstep of the church. I believe this Gospel, I say I believe it, like Gregory believes in his anarchism in the The Man who was Thursday, or does he? I don't know yet.

I think the emphasis is Love. We know it is the greatest form of Expression. Every man, or every woman, who is an artist, produces Art, creates something out of their emptiness or out of their fullness, and like a miracle, however it got there, through drug influence or not, it comes to be, it appears, it is there ... there in some solitary room unknown to the Art Critics, maybe never to be revealed, or there in some Gallery, the Modern Art museum in NYC, or maybe in some Cave in France, the Creation enters the world, it is born, and it has no life span, it will always be. What does the Art say? Or what does it not say? And who cares if it doesn't say what we wish it to say, at least it says something, or maybe it is in the nothing that it speaks, it just is what it is, and maybe it is in that that we can remember or imagine that it was out of nothing the Creation of the World came to exist, into form. Those Spiral Clouds hovering over the Face of the Deep, the Spirit Moving and Breathing.

So as humans, when we come together, we must always remember the Love. We must remember the paradox of life, and look for our source, our well in the dry desert. One seeks knowledge, one seeks the truth, one seeks questions, one seeks answers, one seeks hope in hopeless times ... in a chaotic world or an orderly world, one must find peace within themselves, inhuman times of war or human times of giving, one must find the control, the love they hold for who they are. We must love ourselves. We must love the shadows in our knuckles, the eyelash in our eyes, the pulse in our neck, the uncut toe-nails of our feet, the inabilities of our mind, the failures of our history, the struggles of our present, the addictions in our veins ... it is a whole, friend, it is a whole ... and humanity is a whole, humanity is One. One Love.

Art is an ongoing digestion, a chamber or cavern without end, a landfill of beauty, where the ingestion pours in and never becomes congested. Or at least, that is what I think or experience with what art is for me and to me. The ArT trembles within me, I tremble before it, it is like breathing onto coaL, a crashing, a symphony, tambourines, a traffic jam of horns and feet on dashboards, but not the effect a traffic jam produces in some of us, the feeling of being closed in, trapped, no! NO! We get out of the car and jump on the car or walk up to other cars, speak with the young woman with the red bandanna, or the man with the pipe, SmILE at the WorLD, this world that doesn't know what is coming, except higher gas prices because that is the common talk here in America.

Stridefull	Latest page update: made by Stridefull , Jul 4 2007, 10:13 PM EDT (about this update About This Update Edited by Stridefull view changes - complete history)
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