Day: June 18, 2012

Apropos Jean Fautrier (1898-1964)

On By NW FilbertIn Art, Traces6 Comments

I have filled my head with images, almost.  Substances evolving, fossilized.  Suggested.

“Everything may be expressed with almost nothing at all” –Jean Fautrier

                         Not difficult to find.  More difficult to gaze.

                         Remember, great pleasure builds.

                         Canvas – paper – plaster – oils.

                         Pen swoop, pencil curve, scattered dusts of inks.

                        Essential layering and beauty, simple mysterious complexities – the female form

                      To mix the media, the processing, to express and discover the sculpture of painting, the painting of clay, the drawing of oil and etchings in sketch.  To flurry the senses.

                       I hear with my eyes the wail of the hostage

                       I smell with my fingers the verdancy of fruit

                       I see with my mouth the movement of women

                             Conflation.  “Original reproductions” – pattern and design redone yet never the same

                            If ‘everything may be expressed with almost nothing at all,” I have tried.  His is substantial suggestion; though relatively small in size, like geometric theorems or graphing physics they structure abyssals and infinities.  The body wants to know what lies beneath, or through, out, or in.

                                  Capturing the vibratory stillness of monuments and remembered events – the meditativeness of gazing and time – with the erratics of movement and frenzy of action.  Stay stare; move make; know seek.

“Everything may be expressed with almost nothing at all”

An Alter-Ars-Poetica

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Traces, Writing3 Comments

Alter-Ars-Poetica

It comes down to this – a “long walk in the dark” – all smeared in bear’s blood.  A hunger, a thirst, and a desperate exhaustion.  I grasp.  I hang on.  I plead.  I am breathing, I think.

And there in the blood is the soil.  The bitter, the oils and the ash.  I start to chew my breath.

It is then I begin with the dreams.  To hallucinate, I shout words and weep mumbles, which shape image, erupt forms, and I enter.  Kaleidoscopic hallways, enormous caverns and seas.  I refract and am drawn.  I am fragments.  I ray.

The world begins, or begins again, estranged and available.  Shattered thus and malformed, it readies.  A me.  I swoon, I step forth, I mutter and trace.  I become colors and fluids and I flow and I fill.  The world recedes in its changing – I give chase, and start seeing again.

Evoking desire of indifference-foes.

I stand up with a body, a medium (as if it mattered), and approach, thus affecting its molding of me.  I content.

Here is where the story goes, splotched along this trail.  Caught in weeds and nettles, drinking mud and rain.  Clay that shapes the tablets, work inscribed by bones.

The labor of erosion that brings the doubting truths to light.  The heaving lung and shriveled spleen, muscle scored by mind’s lightning.

The moment that the moment keeps occurring.

 

(this piece inspired by the following: Larry Levis’”Coda: A Word to the Wicked”; Galway Kinnell’s “The Bear” and Phil Levine’s “They Feed They Lion”)