an artist thinks deeply about creation. let us compare only in jest, our creative art to the true creative powers that bring us reality. we have perceptions. we have perspective. arrangements and presentations but nothing more.
this is not scripture but the undoings of spiritual knots. the adjustment of rods and stones, the foundations and skelatal back bones, the desperate scratchings of an impotent beast.
my life is the object. my arti is my reproduction. everything is filtered and biased.
also, my art is an object for your to see. filtered again, through your psyche. art made new again as removed from me the creator as i am removed from reality.
interpretations of interpretations. yours are more important. they are so much more grand. they are not the stretching and pulling of your own soul but the story of a martyr who you watch and experience vicariously. of course, i am nothing of a christ but in your mind.
and i start to believe it. reflection redefines the object.
the artist does not generate beauty. he recognizes it. he isolates it and reproduces it. the foundations and skeletal structures are all stolen. also the flesh is picked and scavenged from everywhere i've been.
focus enough to retain a story but not so much that you forget to notice the extremities. the corners and shadows and little forgotten places where ideas come from.
perspective enough to move forward and not get stuck but never to be so wise as to move too swiftly. may i never cease to feel frustrated. embrace the feelings of anxiety. you've been around these parts enough and you're a local and you know it like the back of your hand but you're curious still.
and there is a bigger world out there.