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Paint
Paint. Only stains here in America, I was told, the pigment minimal. I am hungry for paint of Europe, of France, England, and Germany, or anywhere else, Australia I heard produces rich paints. Do we have knowledge about the paint? I have just painted with what was either found in garage sales or in the basement or on the shelves of art stores, but just knowing that something more juicy and delicious is out there pecks my brain like a Sparrow at a chicken-bone!
Students we may be, yes, but we are so much more, we are painters in this world, and painters to the ends of the earth we will be. If I have to work as a postman or a hot dog vendor, I will, if it means I can paint into the late night hours afterwords. Being an artist is something you see yourself becoming as time proceeds and as you somehow proceed along with it, breathing, inhaling paints, the winds outside your window that creep into your hair at 1:00 am and all you do is close your eyes and know that it is the knowledge of Beauty, of grace, of love even in the trees and the rain and the crawling ants on the branches, the dew on your window, the little one resting his head on your foot.
IT is these things, I think, these happenings, that tell us who we are, and where we are, are here, here in this paint splattered, staple/nail/splinter, ground, floor of attic, our corner of place where we do not know time, but somehow we think time doesn't exist for us, we just do, work, scream, pull hair, bite lip, pick glue out of ear, crack toes, peel dead skin, drink paint water by accident, pray at the top of your lungs, pray in quiet, lounge on couch with one broken leg, look at wood and canvas for hours, and then we wonder, what for? But such a thought leaves us, we forget about such things, it doesn't matter, we just want to live, and someday die, die and know that we were obedient to the desires in our heart, to be human and to be artist.
IT is these things, I think, these happenings, that tell us who we are, and where we are, are here, here in this paint splattered, staple/nail/splinter, ground, floor of attic, our corner of place where we do not know time, but somehow we think time doesn't exist for us, we just do, work, scream, pull hair, bite lip, pick glue out of ear, crack toes, peel dead skin, drink paint water by accident, pray at the top of your lungs, pray in quiet, lounge on couch with one broken leg, look at wood and canvas for hours, and then we wonder, what for? But such a thought leaves us, we forget about such things, it doesn't matter, we just want to live, and someday die, die and know that we were obedient to the desires in our heart, to be human and to be artist.
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Stridefull |
Latest page update: made by Stridefull
, Jul 4 2007, 9:53 PM EDT
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