05.09.05| a casting of stones "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: Lost my sense of the written word. At one point language moved from my hands without effort; daily outbursts of text consumed my journals. A new phase drops my vocabulary to individual words, catch phrases, occasional paragraphs. It is all due to restricting myself to visual mode: photographing models and translating their forms for paintings, metamorphosis to paper. Even now I wrestle with falling into a state of day-dreaming—not out of boredom, but more as a meditative arrangement of my thoughts before the pen moves across the page: the mind pictures an over analysis of the subject at hand—rather than concentrating on a description, written communication, of how a pose effectively captures a moment for transition—the idea re-expressed. This is not a complaint. It is an observation. Noting the events for future reference, future transformation of the personality. For me, the paths of painter and writer remain closely aligned. There are times when I fall more confident along either road—at this point, for the next few months, I will be consumed with sketches and painting—throwing in an occasional phrase, fallen words, into the images, scraps of verse showing up as ghosts in the edges of the page. Two projects: thoughts in progress |
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