Apology is the word for you. Moments gone to time and dust. Tongue still dry it whispers dark. Howling low it knows the tune.
Drawn to Dark, you antiflame. Vibrations will not stop, still it turns. Threaded and lost in the eddy of fear. My bleeding gums shine bright.
Night repeating as burned out day. Floating above dream’s breath. A loop then ride before the flames.
Rushing winds on stagnant water. Life’s elements decay in dark. Reaching out, your friends now gone forever. The shutter dulls a ceaseless pain. There was a time I may have whispered into you.
There is a spark I feel and it is a precious thing. As the building crumbles the fire flares inside. I am a painter, an art form dead generations before. I don’t care the flame shall be nurtured, it calls my name.
It really feels like the end of days still the sun is shining. My modest 401k has gone away even as the snow turns back to ground. Finance and health aside the stretching days are filled with light. Thankful this didn’t happen in the darkened depths of Fall.
It’s a strange kind of prophecy, crying in the parking lot. Not sure you were a genius knowing it all ends in pain. You held my wreck-less station. I’m still standing in the shadows, waiting in the rain.
Hip to be Square
As a kid I never painted a square painting. I liked a rectangular format that could be a tall image or a wide image.
Often on Instagram people will comment about how they like the unusual shape of some of my custom made panels. With my contrary nature it makes me avoid unusual shapes!
Again I started thinking about sanding down some huge square panels I have buried in the attic. I realized part of the draw of the square format is the extra blank quality. The shape has no compositional interest. Sure a large square has a modern appeal but to me there is something so stark and empty about the square format. The painting is everything.
Sometimes (maybe always)
People ask about the brush I used in a particular Instagram Story. Folks get excited, then it seems incredibly important to me. Where is that brush have I lost it or did I accidentally throw it out? Was that brush the reason that painting worked? Can a paint anymore without said brush? Seeming doubtful now…
A strange life driven to create. My motives are pure, I continue my work. Grumpy old man… I may well be.
Not sure where I put that brush…
Through the Pane
I don’t like to plan, so much to do. Grand aspirations only seem to disappoint. The tedious artistic attitude, dissatisfied with work. I appreciate the positives regardless of the height. Nothing competes with the feeling of creation. Something new and alive, glimpsed through the pane.