Painting Books.
Nuancing content, is a hard gist to follow.
As in all collaborations, a limited edition or collection of books - can be as nuanced as your thought process in simplifying solutions.
This seems altruistic as first. It’s not. It’s an expression of how someone sees potential in their capability - and instead of being afraid of what it brings, knows how to land that right in the middle of a stream of elegant thought - and tarry with the conundrums, in whatever shape or form. (/Question mark/?)
This poses my real dilemma at hungrily understanding how your borders work - that concerns all our land wars, and the balance that we seek in the mind, and ultimately - to the actions that express our need to get our incessant need to get thoughts across (in the written published word, or in a violent strike, or in very thoughtless careless words), these are how you transfer that energy towards someone - or something. A cause, a transgression, and sometimes its strength can’t be fathomed in the presence of an unlikely recourse.
Is that a reaction to something that gurgles up inside - a past, a valued reconnaissance, a presence, a task un-minded, a very unusual address to the recesses of your soul’s very unattained recognition from another?
I submit myself to the process - whether my writing, in my painting, in my craft or whatever art form tackled as tasked or as needed to undertake. Unlike the framework of Law, the Liberal Arts take very little structure - sometimes disconcerting, as its unseen - and this causes misunderstanding. But it draws the most satisfaction in the weighing of all our eternally in-escapable fate: “the collective human”.
When we paint colours, we express what we see - as a nuanced process inside us (as the artists and creators, that we are, by nature) - to refine our thoughts and in very (inevitably) moved cases, our emotions.
We see this in our poetry, and mostly all cultures.
Sometimes, my essays and long-form articles become documental - to repress that eager attribute of all that i have in the scurrying of my bubbling tepidness that is under control beneath the calm exteriors.
Do i rage?
Do i sabotage?
Am i human enough to be this elastic?
Do i react to the prods and the pokes? That has been materialised in all the taunts & in-elegance of societal nonchalance?
If i was God, i would forgive. Immediately, as if it were a blink.
(There is nothing to mind.)
Am i God?
And if so, What do i Want?