On Art

It is a vestige of life in a dying breath.

As with all artists, imperceptibly, creating (or conjuring) works becomes a process of growth. It is like nourishment, through which the artist grows and develops- divulging all their education, influence and personal experience to a pinnacle, at that point, but which is then, after being regurgitated, eaten up by the individual for sustenance and sustainability. We, (that is, the artist) as mother, pluck the worm to feed our young; who we also embody through our desire to pluck greater worms, feed greater impulses and sire our own brood. Both one and the other, we feed ourselves to grow hungry. In the appropriation of all evidences, we bloom in a way that allows a temporary permanency to our works, in that they exist for a time in a relation to us that is unchangeable, i.e. permanent, because once born they are not returned, but rather, juxtapose a creator and source of origin which is in a state of inertia: always spinning, and with each revolution, succumbing to X amount of extraneous forces to the Nth degree, so that, by time we are again faced with our brood, we are no longer worthy of the name 'creator', because we are no more that being, but rather the destroyer, like Saturn, who will feed on them to ensure our fate is not met to face us, but that we may change our destiny- death- and through perennial birth, live forever. In like accord, we change, as so do the things we create, until they are all brought together to create the sum of all things which extends almost beyond our singular devotion to our cause; we are ineluctably always moving, though the signs we leave behind may remain in place forever. Art stands as a token of higher reality: a perspective of truth: the culmination of expectation and reason at that instant in time; given from an unchanging certitude, all at once from the hands of an entity full of temporary fascinations who is born to die.

An ever resounding echo from a caller who has long since passed.