A knowing emerges clad in a spectrum’s light. Brought back from its ancient dark obscurity of a blackened impurity, yet it comes alive again and is transforming. Hear of its past in the great howlings of now pure-white robbed hawks. As was once witnessed from this artist’s point of view, that of his soul’s prosodied perspective, it is now of this man’s knowing wherefore I paint, and of his soul’s idea to word.
Painting Aspect and derivative of a larger work-
Is it nothing … Lam 1:12, and its commentary.
Paint is the medium of the artist- put to work by the person within. Word-work is the medium of their artistic soul. They reflect upon each other, about each other, in knowing, inspiring, and in transforming each other, as well as the world. One without the other is incomplete, unknowable, void of life- dead. Beauty in Art is a coming together, the person and his soul, of their artistic workings, to be shared, and its worth’s value accessed as judged by you. Of what color are you then?
Life exists between the black and the white of it- in the paint. All else in light’s middle medium is but colored opinion. We are all but shades and hues of a light’s spectrum. Passion is rendered in vanity’s vibrant tones, while purpose is drawn as imperfect, by feathered fears and penciled bones.
I wish not to paint religious art, but to compose with color’s spirituality. I want not to write words to think, but to script wonder poetically.
Origins of Life rendered in Devine Black beyond all light
The absolute-cold color observed was painted from beyond all light. A paradox- of its nothing, is rendered in the darkest of all tinctured emotions- in black. The color’s mysterious artistic allure entices us with its purpose, leading our hesitant trust back in space and in time toward the mythical beginnings of light, advancing its affect into the depths of the lightless desolation awaiting us. The emptiness abiding therein retreats us further into its own sinister place, then further still, back into its unknowable eternity.
This unwelcomed guest- the apprehension we feel, as we venture deeper into that black, authors our growing fear of this threatening unknown void, while receding us into that color’s realm of beyond all light. As we journey, our cunning intruder’s weighted dimension quietly drapes us within its dyer darkness. It prepares its final heavy embrace in having clothed you and me in the blackest remnants of a dementia’s darkest shade. Our attendant fear re-fashions its persuasions, as we descend downward, deeper, into a much stranger sensing of a distant on-coming presence. Deeper yet, it now turns our intuitions around our weakening objections from a self-confessed perplexing disbelief into a sudden moment’s reluctant acceptance. Deeper still.
That of our being now wanders among unfamiliar strangers slowly moving to the rhythmic dirge of solemn shuffling gaits, as performed by the blackest of silhouetted souls. We sense our belonging to this order of seekers, roaming as they must and as we now move, having joined them in their meandering soundless wave-in-wait of dutiful witness to this unending procession before us- that of the militant marchings of mystifying life-like black shadows. The passing pageant demonstrates its remaining color columned in secretive silence. Arguing in muted gestured complaints and objecting in disturbed gyrations, they protest at the decaying of their once human forms. They are slowly wasting away as all light disowns them, discarding them behind.
The fading of the figures foretell of light’s final abandonment as they pass. They rove in misery toward a formal forgetting of the last vestige of their once only desire- that of doing well in perfect synchronicity with their lifelong companions. Their faithful service was dutifully recorded by their light-filled lingering past, that was until now, this being their solitary closing dark passage- their unknowing of that last light in their lives, leaving nothing of them but words, neither to be spoken, nor to ever be remembered by.
The passing shadow’s sorrowful pleadings silently hover above the ranks moving beneath them in their death’s retrospective, until their growing number and weight of words releases them to empty their desperate implorings into the slow downward churn of whatever faint-praised psalms and expired prayers that may still languish unstirred, or among those which have fallen to lie far below, interred. Beside the composers’ sacred versing and hallowed pleas of the past, those shadowed final beseechings rain down too, as desiccated dying dust, settling to lay forever decomposing into that paradox of its nothing by the workings of utter despair, upon the blackened bleak bar rain of the unknowning , and forgotten dead.
Man of us, take your leave in words of this dismal dark beyond.
Wait for a God’s absence, then ascend! Quickly! Fly!
Return to the world this light, as life! Worthy words of its knowing.
Remember that for which I shall have to stay, here behind,
As I had before, and in my own way, to harvest light among the sorrows.
For us, I surrender words to that work for which I now must pay.
Return to paint with a resending light’s rescued white,
Though dimmed down to a cad’s argued glowing- made imperfect.
Survivor of life’s end- the light, it to you I shall send, and most often.
Believing in that of its absence- well then, let that be your flawed night.
Of that remnant light from the dead? That to paint into a perfect day!
Move on. Leave now.
I remain in eternity to paint among these souls and shadows that pass,
Making certain to recover their discards of light- spent life in their path,
Redeeming all of light’s beauty and abundance of glimmerings that last.
It shall be my gift for you to paint, to use light in its whole or in its parts,
As having been taken from those who may have in life from its start,
Neither chose it … to want, nor wished it … to see. To wonder.
I shall forever endure for them their light’s loss- a saddened borrow.
And by this utility- my deepest sorrow, I shall forever ask in words,
”Are these then not our winnings? Not my chance?”
Depart ! For certain you are my eyes to see, my willing want in dance.
Your spirit by His approving glance, has set you for all of eternity-
The more favored of us, the one part of us He chose to be free.
Herein, I shall abide my pain with this one colored paint- beyond all light,
As well as to suffer through knowing of your more fortunate fate.
Yet still, trust me to ably brush a humor’s want upon your faceless fears.
Know that since before this conviction’s time, I have been at your drawing,
At your warring, as silent courage- friend, as your mold, your artistic soul.
Is that faith’s light your’s? Forwith to grow? Then go and draw on! War on!
Shall I eternally labor as one fearless among the more forgotten, the dead.
Forgiving darkness, watching always its creep through black stained-glass tears?
Giving up to life, that light from this darkness, of which now you surely can know?
I shall then paint!- my sadness, my madness, my shortest moments into eternal years,
In that Devine Black- beyond all light, is for you to know. To then show.
Of it and of me? Be pleased in your leaving , for only you and God will truly know?
Rockin’ Horseman ‘09
January 26, 2009
From where does this inspiration come? Why is an idea- a knowing, or its color given sanction by an artist to paint from it, a writer to wander its words across the hunger of a blank page- a Dante, or a musician to compose from it four single notes into an unforgettable symphony?- a Beethoven. I am neither entirely sure, nor can I believe I will ever know. What I do know is that of a shared feeling of sadness born in a tearful sorrow’s release by my dear friend upon her reading of Thomas Hardy’s last page of his novel- Mayor of Casterbridge. What I do know is that fear, that stark dark terror, when brought within an arm’s reach of Joseph Conrad’s character Wolf Larsen in his classic novel, Sea-Wolf. What I do know is that Black- beyond all light, imperfect yet gloriously Devine, alive! from having seen it in the velvet shine of my Saddie Mae’s black coat, as she basked in the bright morning sun of a winter’s day following a snowy arctic night. A vivid violet seen in effervescent sparkles made her black resplendent, gleaming, luminous, unlike any black extruded straight from a color’s pretentiously labeled tube. Maybe I should not have told you that, and let your creativity wonder. Know that I believe sacred should be those color’s we chose for our lives, and use in rendering our best ideas- mixed and made imperfectly, yet Devine, upon the palette of our artistic lives.
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