9″ X 12″ works on watercolour paper from 2021. I’m not sure why the whales (in groupings of three) are looking at the iconographic images (on a shroud?) within eggs or stones. I discovered about thirty blueish smaller paintings on paper I did during the second lockdown.
I meet an old friend for coffee and cake
we discuss the symmetry of
consequence, the coincidence of
symmetry.
After we stand on the corner
I visit two bookstores
near one another in The Annex,
mostly second-hand
books I will thumb through
a hundred times (knock on wood)
finding inspiration
sifting subconscious & mythological elements
a chapter here, chapter there
traipsing the curvilinear imagination.
Birds fly low magnetized by subterranean quartz
wings whoosh, swooshing
miraculously, above the roar of wind,
I hear their soft instruction.
A young person, in motion a river,
photographs the books
over my shoulder.
Humming a tune
I contemplate pages
on the subway train.
Or so it seems, the way she steadies her phone
visible out the corner of my eye –
my station approaches.
I said this image is four, maybe, or five-thousand years old
she said I saw the books.
She said something, maybe, what
she read or might be reading.
Maybe she mentioned Byzantium.
I understood barely anything almost nothing,
with her speaking through a mask,
the subterranean ambient noise,
additional my normal hearing trouble.
She repeats a word, I tilt my head
like a bird
darting
the door embellished with golden mosaic tiles,
sliding closes in my face.
A vast dimension
composed of light-years
descends upon me.
The sound of her mystery words
accentuates her aura
like a river in motion.
I repeat rhyming words
the consequence of symmetry
the symmetry of coincidence.
Thank you, she said.
I dart for the door again
climbing tiled stairs
beneath vast archways
tasting cake.
Birds swoop above & below a quartz-river
flowing from the sun.
The Idea of the Book in the Middle Ages: Language Theory, Mythology and Fiction by
Jesse M. Gellrich –
Sun, Moon and Standing Stones by John Edwin Wood –
Inside the Neolithic Mind by David Lewis-Williams & David Pearce –
A Search for Cave and Canyon Art: Voices From the Stone Age by Douglas Mazonowicz – (signed by the author)
I was tempted to leave this as a rougher, more expressive work.
Started this painting in 2020.
It has quietly ‘stayed put’ on the easel while I work on my big roll of paper.
I see it every day. I really do need a phone with a ‘good’ camera.
Size: 40″ X 40.” Acrylic on canvas. Title: Annunciation.
After working in mostly blues for three or four years it feels good to
work with colour again.
In corridors
of
a shadow-mansion,
once well-known,
obsidian-animals
summon an alchemical star.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting subterranean architecture of poetry.
The haystack-man
within my obsidian-heart
longs for the once well-known
song of the silver bird.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting original colour wheel of poetry.
Oceanic echoes
vibrate between stalactites.
The silver bird chants subterranean poetry
perched
upon an enormous iron wheel.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting physiology of poetry.
Nimble obsidian-animals climb
a half-visible clock-tower
buried in night-coloured shadow.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting geological formations of poetry.
Obsidian-animals,
pulsing hearts moist as roots,
prowl the corridors.
A vase tips
dried flowers scatter across a night-coloured carpet.
The seahorse-ghost of my cubistic, star-like obsidian heart
envelops the buried clock-tower.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting vast agriculture of poetry.
Haystack-man nimble as a shadow-animal
swims within buoyant
star-like dimensions,
climbs an enormous staircase
enters an unlocked door.
His feet rise above tar-night shadow
skipping iike a child.
Elsewhere, the poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
chanting the infinite mansions of poetry.
I wrote a short poem this morning in homage to Marina Tsvetaeva. The poem was spontaneous. A lifetime entered that quicksilver moment. I have revisited the poem and edited.
Wherever you are Marina, I accept your verdict.
Last night I read selections from Marina Tsvetaeva’s Art in the Light of Conscience: Eight Essays on Poetry (translated by Angela Livingstone).
‘Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941) was one of the four great Russian poets of the 20th century, along with Akhmatova, Mandelstam and Pasternak.’
‘For me, there are no essays on poetry as unique, as profound, as passionate, as inspiring as these. “Art, a series of answers for which there are no questions,” Tsvetaeva brilliantly asserts, and then goes on to ask questions we didn’t know existed until she offered them to us, and answers to some of poetry’s most enduring mysteries.’
– C.K. Williams
The mandorla symbolizes the intersection of the two spheres of heaven and earth.
A Dictionary of Symbols, J.E. Cirlot
My large painting (& drawing) on a roll of Fabriano paper has turned the corner.
Still down on the floor like a turtle. Maybe the turtle is giving birth.
I’m playing with the title:
Druidica.
Druidica Blue.
Druidica Blue: Deja Vu.
Druidica Vu: Deja Vu (Cave Art for the New Psyche).
Mother envelops children
Sideways roll, forward roll, tilt back
Father leading golden animal
Beneath the obsidian ceremonial archway
Gift of bread
Gift of water
Caravan single file behind golden animal
Golden animal envelops dream
Dream envelops form
Mother in her rare blue shroud
One star rolling above
the obsidian ceremonial archway.
Painting: Mother, 2020, acrylic on canvas, 9″ X 12″
The road less taken, pupil of the eye, salt storm
Tarkovsky’s sparrow, wheel of resonance & reconstitution
Derelict horizon, toothpick sculpture, Joseph Beuys’ hat
Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.
More pet rock, more Jojo Rabbit
More The Ramones, more amnesia in blue fish
More candle flame within fossil-bed
More typewriter in fog
Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.
More icicle tattoo, more Pointillism, more maze
More reclined on golden lion sipping absinthe
More Byzantium, more obsidian telephone
Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.
More grasshoppers in her wondrous hair
More snow sharp as thumbnail, more invisible typhoon
more evidence of blossom, more tree root-rotting
Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.
O’ robe covered in black tar, O’ shadow like a cloak
O’ she spoke in truth, O’ I died in truth
O’ ironing board made of Noah’s ark
Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.
O’ heartbeat long for Jupiter, O’ broken thermometer
O’ heel on Beatle boots, O’ whispering, O’ dirty dishes
O’ blood on envelope, O’ cat staying out all night
Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.
Ceremonial aspirin, ceremonial clock-radio, ceremonial feet on floor
Ceremonial Dharmachakra, ceremonial embroidery
Ceremonial right from wrong
Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.
Image: Wheel of Sun temple of Konarak World Heritage monument: Orissa, India
Almost here – almost there.
Painting on Fabriano mixed-media paper, a soft yet substantial texture.
Inks, water-soluble graphite, gouache, watercolour, watercolour pencil.
Mostly materials one might use for smaller works and yet here we are.
Blues. Druidic blue. Pictish Blue.
It almost came to me – how to begin.
It almost came to me – how to complete this work.
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