Who do I turn out to be? I look at this wreckage, this masterpiece, this ensamblage of a life, feats of extraordinary measure, so many mathematical impossibilities… and yet…
Did I tell you about the time I did four years worth of art and had it all taken from me? Thrown away? No recourse as of yet and yes I am grateful -thank you very much- for what I have learned in the process. Because it has been impressive what I have learned. And perhaps, perhaps, there was no quicker way.
I mean it.
Those are the tough lessons, the “I want to yell and berate and accuse” lessons, the stories when we forget our power, our inspiring sense of…? Well, I guess sometimes people can be afraid of artists, of the anomaly of Divine something or other, undefined, incalculable, expressions. Light that could bounce five days and fifteen ways from Sunday in ten trillion directions. Fractals. Mirrors. Oh what Light can do to a set-up like that.
I shine my Light whether I want to or not, because that Light is Union, that Light is proof that Life is not truly definable or calculable or predictable though behaviors sometimes are, though wants, desires, habits, preferences, sometimes are. Life. Life is something entire. And… unto itself.
I’m grateful to the Beings that saved my life. That brought me to Colorado after I painted what I painted and lost what I lost. Thank you mystery Beings. I was mad for so long. I watched a video of this man tonight, I watched this video about Michael Shurman, a painter. It reminded me of a dude I met, that kept me safe when I was in Boulder, his name was Burt. We were sure he was the Burt from Burt’s Bees because that’s the first dumpster dive haul gift he gave us, lip balm (and holy shit, you don’t know how awesome lip balm is until you spend a few weeks outside.) Do you take your lip balm for granted? Don’t.
Burt had a sketch book. He was an amazing artist. If I wasn’t blond, it probably wouldn’t have taken me so long to connect the dots.
There is something about art that is so hard to describe.
A painter/speaker came to the U of M when I was still there, before I jumped into another reality, if that’s what you call this. His name is Bunky Echo Hawk. I was thinking about his presentation, what it was like to watch someone paint something that cool that fast. I miss painting so much it hurts sometimes. But I don’t know if I was ever very good. I was just getting started really, when I lost everything. And oils, man, they are expensive. So I sketch, I mess around with acrylics, I pretend it’s the same but it’s not. I hang on to things thinking someday I’ll turn it into …a sculpture or statement or …
I didn’t realize how much I miss it, how small my life is, how hard I have to stay focused in order to be ok with this. Until things get better. Until the clouds and the seas and the ignorance finally parts long enough for me to walk freely again.
I digressed again, what I wanted to say was that when you watch a real artist or see real art there is this little spark, a little something goes off in your brain, rusty and little used wheels start to turn if they’ve done their job well and you try to find ways to comprehend the puzzle in front of you. It’s a brain exercise that is also a soul exercise. It’s how human’s evolve their communication system and with that, well, everything else.
Glamour, contrived artistry, is something else entirely. If you’ve never sat in the presence of an actual artist you may not ever have felt that spark, that something indescribable turning in your brain, neurons firing and rewiring and signals flying off in all new directions. Creativity by proxy. Creativity. Intelligence. Can you have one without the other?
Art isn’t pretty pictures. Although sometimes it is.
Art is expression of the unexpressed.
It is how you grow.
Besides veterans, and kids kicked out of the foster system, artists were the other overly represented group I met out there …
An evolution or revolution of consciousness is a great idea. But if you want to really change the world, you cannot leave your artists behind.
Creative types, empaths, deep thinkers, divergent seers… and there is no way for you to be sure you aren’t leaving them behind, that there isn’t a message being swept under a rug or out of sight when 3 million people are living on the streets and economic fuckery happens all the time.
Glamour is fun and you could even argue it has it’s place. It provides pre-packaged simulated emotional experiences. It’s better than zero emotions or highly toxic emotions… hey, wait a minute.
Anyhoo… you get my point.