------ updated October 28th '08, fine art print added ------
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I can not be the only artist, I think, consumed by a need for art? Not a desire, a need I mean. Like oxygen feeding the fire of passion, it must be [and is] always close to my mind in some way or all passion would suffocate, and life end with it. [for what is life worth without passion?] In such as way does art become life, or at lest an expression of the act of living itself.
How does such a need take hold though? How did it take shape for you, if it ever did? Did maybe a relentless inward turn of the mind onto itself produce such compressive force that the brain was crushed in to a liquid sphere of white hot intellect and lighting? That sent silver tendrils flashing down one's throat into the deepest empty places of one's chest [the den of the weight of sadness] where it struck up an inferno that ate darkness itself as fuel? And with it's fire swept away all weaker passions [both the good passions and the bad passions], and freeing the heart from it's bloody physical trappings revealed a spiritual organ of gold standing bright among the flames? And did a molten mix of golden emotion and silver intelligence rush through one's veins to empower every molecule of one's body, igniting irises so they would illuminate the shadows of the world, enflaming hands so they would melt all barriers? And having forced itself into every atom of ones person, the heat then forced itself between atoms and swirled gold with silver in a violent maelstrom where in all turned to light? And was it then that all other expression of life seemed insufficient... ?
In all seriousness, I love this craft. I just hope I improve in my abilities so that one day they can fully compare to the will I have to drive them.------ ------ ------ ------ ------
(Open Edition) Print Version: Color Version
(also see the Black & White, Tone, and Inverse versions if online (green dot), or if offline (red dot) then write me and ask about availability.)