My photography muse has disappeared. Or perhaps I am not looking out into the world with the right lenses. Perhaps it is because I am struggling with a vague loneliness. A missing of some part of me... I think I know what it is, but I am afraid to answer it truthfully.
Creative expression is the part of me I have opened in this new chapter of life which began a while ago. The visual part of me is still there. I am drawn to the tactile arts and have arranged to be the assistant to a metal artist who made a fantastic sculpture of a maple seed pod. I am making steps and efforts to commit to my tactile and creative needs. My own expression seems to have fallen into words. Words are something I am hearing, dancing, all about me. From an interview on CBC I was captivated by ptolemic and pastiche, and later I stumbled across a poetry self-discovery book. I tried some of the exercises and wrote words that appealed to me. Had a ring. Like verdant and voracious, solemnify and arbitrary, incongruous, apothecary, azure, silken, rippled, ashen, ascertain, encompass. I let my mind wander where it would...
skin dappled with droplets of sun
recollection of another time
years accumulated
rounded smoothness suspended by musculature
or
moisture coalesced
between the planes hewn from one
heedless and headlong
forced from the garden
yet not able to dry
XOX-- Do you see yourself? Does a line touch you for some reason? You see, I finally get this poetry thing. It need not mean anything to anyone else. What I am referring to or what I meant does not really matter. For the play of the words is the application of colour on canvas. How your eyes interpret that colour and internalize is beyond my control. Like visual art, there is form and there is effect.
