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Wednesday, 30 July 2008

Vision of sorts...

I had a vision of unbuttoning my skin, only to let out an escapade of trapped birds. From my chest, they drove free in a mass of huge, flapping wings… feathers falling as they flew for their lives outside of me. … I am writing these words several days after I saw my flapping birds escape the cages of my chest, flying up, up, far away to the lands of heaven knows where. Behind the sofa are eight empty canvases… they sit there, and snicker. Personified canvases. Nine jumbo personified paint tubes sitting idly in the closet, their pigment and oil separating – a silent warning of my neglect. Something boils in my system. Temperature rising, creeping, ready to give, ready to come apart at the seams and crumble. Ready to incinerate, consume, devour, ravage… wrath in my heart. There is an edge in my blood. Scorching, piercing… anger bridges the nonexistent gaps between my soul and my mind, and claustrophobia sets in like a snarling creature cornering a kitten. I feel my mind on the verge of snapping, and the ground somehow feels unsettled, quaky, and then… fear. Fear… fluttering around my shoulders, a hesitant butterfly. Fear that I cannot control volcanoes with my bare feet, I realize, especially, if those volcanoes are born from inside my ribcage…. A natural disaster, waiting to happen. A miniature tsunami, the size of a mountain, the size of an ant, sizeless, weightless, and all the weight in the world… bowling-ball beads, a necklace, a noose, an anchor. I want to shake it out of my hair, weep it out of my eyes, claw it out of my skin – tear it out, coax it, beg it, murder it. But no… I sit, sit still… still as stone, deserted as a graveyard, rigid as a cane. The cracks creep slowly from my ankle upwards as earthquakes within rumble, roar and claw and destroy, and settle… an atomic mushroom spreading eternal silence over those poor, trapped birds…. and it passes… it passes… anger turns to dust, and dust to salt, salt to water, water to tears, and tears spill, spill… the fires are drenched, and cinders glow weak, no longer scorching the flapping wings. I stare at thorns in my palm… the roots at my wrists, twisting vines between radius and ulna, going right through.

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Sunday, June 1st, 2008. - Almost officially a year later :)

Am i revived, or possessed? T'would seem that these hands are not completely dead yet, or at least, may have been temporarily ressurrected to sustain their owner with the small pleasures of hopeful creation. I wonder at its unstable mode, as it comes and goes like a cool breeze on an eternity of humid, scorching summer.

Do you believe in fortunate accidents? little accidents where you see or hear something, or meet someone, all by chance, and it has a strange chemical-effect on the way your whole life turns? Ive had a series of those lately. words, phrases and voices that have come and gone in the past few months and that have, strangely, revived my hands somewhat to a creative 'infant' status.... im taking baby-steps, after being artistically crippled for so long. There was a time in this past year where i thought i could never paint again - had even sworn i would never paint again - probably the curse of too much pressure. I was literally tripping over myself... more so though, i tripped over words that seared through my skin as if i were being carved with knives, and i fell flat on my face. They were the words of those who could not understand my hesitation where my art was concerned... could not understand - and who in turn belittled - what it meant to live in the torturous hesitation that came with the making (and 'not' making) of art; that i could not ever separate myself from my painting; that if my hands died, inevitably, i died too. They were words of destruction, words that clearly stated that i could *never* reach the peak of my art, or anything else. I was made into a hopeless-case, and i truly believed it. As a complete idiot would.

But those fortunate accidents - that touch of unexpected serendipity from absolutely no-where and everywhere - may have been all the encouragement i needed. I wish i could have answered those words then an there; answered back at that pun on my hesitation to exhibit. The thing is, where my art is concerned, it is my soul being bared. I will not have it bared in distortion.. but rather, in completion. In a way that might make others weep. Eventually, I want to wrench people’s heart out with my work. I needed a reason and I just gave myself one. And now I need an idea… one that will give life to my reason. One that will bring a heart of stone to the floor at my feet. I want to thrill, shake, disturb, touch, love - all these things, through my work and more. I want to create a personal climax for everybody. A theme or an idea or a million ideas, understood or misunderstood, that will turn the heart of anyone who walks into the cove of my work. And until i am able to do that kind of work - the work that goes by 'my' standards and not anyone else's, i will not paint for anyone's eye or satisfaction but my own, and i will not exhibit until 'i' make that decision... until i have an identity i can launch like a rocket and then turn away, knowing my work will carry my name the way i want it to. If it means taking these baby-steps for as long as it takes until im dancing across the sky to the stars, then so be it. My work is all i have, in a world where there are those who still cannot understand what it means to me.

Tuesday, July 17th, 2007.

Of late, i have been as good as dead. my hands corpses attached to my body, their stance an outright refusal to cooperate with whatever creative generator exists in the murky waters of my head. I think about the circumstances that have come and gone in the last year or so and immediately understand... my art, bound by the same walls that bind my physical self to this detestable spot, has died with me. why dead though? it looks me in the eye every time i glimpse the mirror. I am as good as dead.

.. does this sound like an overly-dramatic artistic exclaimation? I know if i read this from some other star-struck artist, i would certainy think this. Alas... its the reality i live .

Maybe this is explains why months have passed without my hand reaching for the paintbrush... and why whenever i have attempted, failures scream at me from the face of whatever i paint on. these failures are like poison, murdering every cell as they go. In response, i have refrained. It is a very hard process... a devestating one, to die and ressurect oneself, only to die again. This time, i will stay dead for a while. I will ressurrect only when i am ready. And hence, the art up here, on this site, belongs to Magda... the girl i am not so sure i know anymore. the girl who, in my eyes, has been dead for simply the longest time.

When she's ressurrected, she'll be back to these windows again.

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PREVIOUS POST:

... Painting is almost sacred. There is a certain extasy in being able to splash and smear colors onto the canvas or wood-pannel or paper with brushes or fingers, and formulate the figures of ones mind, and I feel it has the same magic as being able to fill the room with the voice of song, or fill a page with written words, or fill ears with music from an instrument that would otherise be lifeless without the hands that conduct it. Theres a magic in it all - an irrisistable combination of pleasure-pain that is unbeatable.

In this very instant - today, now - when i look through the eye of my soul, I see multi-colored apples, and great bunches filled with purple-blue-pink-marble-grapes entwined with bright green curly vines... i see dew-drops on flowers and bright seas, dancing figures, falling sheets of fabric, crimson skies, purple clouds, multi-colored raindrops! In the here-and-now, I can go on and on, because the colors are endless... but then strangely, just like all wonderful-out-this-world fantastic images and ideas that come in an instant and screech against the walls of your head and beg for attention to be paid to them and actions taken to initate them, they come when you can do pretty much n.o.t.h.i.n.g about them and their existance. You console them, tell them to wait, beg them to stay. And like magic fog that dissapears with the sunrise, they dissolve into a menacing nothing... How do you chain these bitty little magical ideas that form in an instant to the front of your mind, where you can keep them stashed away like a child hiding candy, until you can yank them out and do what you please with them? My fingers itch today. I want so much to sit crosslegged on cool, dusty tiles, and enter 'timelessness', where nothing really exists save the immediate word of brushes and canvases and cool wet pigmets, and the humid perfumes of paint, oil, mediums, clays and turpentine... of over-used cloths stained in every color under the rainbow, in every possible blotchy shape. The joy of having stained fingers. The feeling of alternative life on canvas. The world as it is, and also, as it could be.

... Sometimes, it feels as if all the paintings i could paint in my lifetime are one thing, while the thousands and thousands of conjured images in my head that squeeze themselves unannounced from the cells in my mind are another thing completely. The move faster than my hands can manage... and so somehow, though they may not be placed out there for other eyes to look at with awe or love or hate, they're still around somewhere. The thousands unpainted remain, I think, on the canvases of my mind. My reservoir when my soul is thirsty.

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