Friday, May 23, 2008

Brick Magazine: Featured Artist


If you happen to pick up a Brick this week flip through to page 13. Byrd Cox has written a great article based on a interview i had recently. Pleased is a understatement for me. This full page feature brought a smile to my week and i can certainly say that Byrd has a way with extracting the best of my thoughts as they fly out of my mouth. Not to mention an elegant and intriguing approach to weaving it all together. My sincerest of thanks goes out to her. She is a talented writer and i thoroughly enjoyed the interview.


See it...




Read it...

Published in Brick. May 22st, 2008.

On the web at:
http://www.brickweekly.com/

>>>

Thursday, May 22, 2008

i : strung together : i

strung together…

impressions of matter
emotion
sensation

pressures great enough to forge the synaptic response
binding the moments to reveal a presence

some residual glimpse of the self

i am lost otherwise…

awash in the sea of change
no anchor, no wish, no worry
perhaps free…

at times a smile, at times a tear

though i am not here
i do not exist without them

with them i imagine

what lay beneath
between
among the labyrinth of gaps

they unfold as do the petals of a fresh blossom

beginning as a seed
a root
a stem

bifurcating into infinity
countless blossoms and leaves to catch the passing sun

they are many and few together

some painted
others in stark contrast

they are sound
sensation

the cool wind on a summer day
passing between the branches

they are the heartbeats of my lovers
the breath as i lay there in the night

forgotten they do not ail me

their burdens cannot be felt
yet they remain

stones upon the floor

remembered they move me

they make me
they bind me to myself

push – pull

i am at their feet

willingly and not

perhaps they are only for me to know

perhaps they are shared and i am not alone

perhaps they themselves are living

certainly they grow when watered
they bloom when the seasons turn
they wilt when the cold wind blows
when the sunlight descends from the sea above
when the time has come

and so i sleep…

there they dance

they dance when i am not watching
they play as i pay little attention

when i am at rest

they give, they share, they tell stories to one another

they imagine those things that i cannot

occasionally i wake among them

and as they dance i follow

in their sea i am tossed about
a ship on the open ocean

if i am careful…

if i am quiet…

if i am present and aware

i can watch them
as if i have found some shelter
some island away from the breaking waves

and from there

i can see clearly
something greater

the roots, the seeds
the endless surface of blossoming plains

something remains

true

from here the clam waters reflect the moon

the moment opens and a timeless place is home

this is where i build my well

this is the place from which i draw my water

but today i am lost

an explorer in search of new lands

building maps to home

ARTNET TV

Yinka Shonibare :

While sifiting throught the pages this moring i came across this video that includes the work of Yinka Sonibare. I remeber first seening an image from "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" while scanning one of the regular magazines; sculpture, art papers, art forum... Though i cannot recall which contained this image, it remained in my memory.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

i : you see i : i

you see i…

the past two weeks have gone by …
and with them my presence

days of cloud and rain
intermittent moments of clarity

they pass and my insides dream…


i have a tether to the clouds…

my floating dock in the sea above

stagnant days leave me wanting
and turbulent waves of thought
lay just beneath the surface

the rain has not washed them clear
the tides standstill
yet the surface trembles

heat from the passionate undercurrents…

a stagnant river breeds decay
this place is no different


i am bound here…

looking up at the sky above
anchored by these stones

they carry the burden when i am weak


i was once free…

swimming between the currents
diving a thousand depths
picking up stones
watching them…

as they fell back to the surface below


i remember little…

but know them well


i slowly attach my self to them…

at first small pebbles
tied by knotted strings
tangled among the trees
floating in the wind


i listen now for the rains to come…

their waters fresh and new
tides within the atmosphere
gently loosen the tangles

dreams…


i occasionally drift…

when the gnarled branches give in
when the knots loose
and the tide has come and gone

looking up my tether remains

looking down the stones…

more work to do


i forget…

it is easy
much more so than letting go
and untying knots can frustrate the mind
they tend to tighten

so forgetting is perhaps the only way to dream

i am a dreamer…

when the wind is high
when the rain falls

when the moon is full
and the cloud above gives fresh water

when the knots are loose and the branches break

letting go…

swimming…


you see i…

am anchored here
by the stones amassed
and if the dock cannot be seen
anxious dreams do not rest


i…

have a tether to the clouds
a shell anchored by stones
and dreams keep me alive
while i learn of letting go

Thursday, May 15, 2008

i : writing more : i

i realize now, after looking at the past, that i have not written here as much as i would have liked. My books go on and i fill page after page with the sketchs and thougths which traverse my mind.



Water among the rivers bed.



Knowing this, i am now determined to make an effort to bring some of what passes, onto the screen which lay in front of me. This is the reason i started this thing. The Blog. To post the thoughts.

The problem seems to be that i rarely copy what i have written in the books onto the posts here. I seem averse to the act of copying. I write because i think incessantly when not making my work and i need to place my thoughts somewhere other than in my mind.

Though the well may never cease to be filled by glimpses of the past and present times, i surly gain some relief from emptying the cup which seems to overflow on the regular.

i do copy, transpose, at times... it is not that this is a bad thing. i am just more intersted in what comes through without the action of editing. Which i rarely do. Lest of course i transpose, then i cannot seem to help but refine what i have placed into the books. This is alright, i suppose, it doesnt bother me, in fact i enjoy making the words run more smoothly, as if i am eroding the boulders of thought that cause the eddies of past moments to endlessly churn in the corners and the turns. I am happy to have a restless river. It is alive and brings me great joy. Though it is nice to have the calm moments to rest.


The point here, is that i began this blog in an effort to write more, to present my thoughts to an outside audience. Wheather or not someone is reading these things means little to me. It is an outlet for some of my energy and it gives me a way to look back on the thoughts which i appear to be ok with exposing to the world. Most of me is exposed. I would say that i hold very little back. So i am here, openly...

It is obvious also that this bolg is focused around my interests in art, my work and the nuances associated with my various forms of expression. So i will in the future begin to write upon the many areas of interest that i have related to expression, art, and living.

So, there will be more to come.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

i : epiphytic daydreams : i

rain...
soaked are my signs from the midnight past,
and i among the calm turbulence of the sunlight
wash my reality in the sea of passing thought

quietly.

she watches from a distance

these waves come and go...
this island...
intermittent clouds of reason cannot compare
and wishes bring more when the senses are given over to currents beneath

it is apparently more difficult to see with eyes open

so with breath so deep the canyons fall
darkness is clarified as the notes descend
sifting through the layers which shadow this soul

she dances and i am moved by the tempo of her footsteps

there is a long pause as i...

shift...
from the memory of a fallen moon

the tide carries my heart away from me

for a moment...
the sound of empty chairs keeps me
but not for long


castaways land here once and a while
they never stay long

seems there is little for them to see
their eyes are open and the clouds keep them moving

she turns in the darkness... to the ocean below

silent...

these wanderings carry such weight
when waking times call for diligence
and i am awash on the shore amongst the trees

perhaps i am not disciplined...

but this means little when the wind blows from all directions
and the old tree shares stories passing between the gnarled branches

she has grown...

as the day goes by time matters less

her presence....

color cast between the roots and lesser spaces
the sublime moment sheltered beneath the canopy

carries me away...

the gentle current unforgettable
subtle turbulence unavoidable

drops.

Monday, May 12, 2008

i : Ming I : i

It was last night, after a weekend of time spent away from the clutter of urban living, that i returned to my place. Cultivation in mind and a moment of chance lending its own direction to my inquiring mind. There, the pages opened to the sign at hand. Ming I. I listen carefully to these rare moments wherein i become aware, if for just a short time, of my steady path upon this crooked road. All things have their way; their cycle of life. I certainly have mine and i was perhaps less aware among the past days of what was just in front of me; the unkown, the changes and the gradual turn of another page in life. From this perspective i should refrain from my outward progression and turn again to my inner self. Surrounding me are the countless points of darkened light, fallen from their own awarness and counting of effort exherted from a position of unsteady foundations. So, agian i listen carefully, quietly and with an eye to the inner seed, to the atmosphere through which i float with an occassional time of navigation. This vessle will move towards the studio, water the seed, and wait patiently for the turing of the tides; the moment where i can once again move about freely among the urban sea.