New piece “Spirit, Mind, Body, and the Machine”
Also, in anticipation of prints, I’ve had professional photos taken of some older pieces.
After a long break, I happy to post the short piece The Cave of the Prophet. Here is a preview:
“That such a coexistance is possible however does not reveal itself through an overcoming of the natural law we had perceived as absolute, but rather through a realization of the subjective nature of its delineation. The basis of their truth was built upon an alter of straw, but the overcoming of it is not accomplished by either burning or further building, but rather by seeing something else altogether: that the idol was built from our own hands, and that the manifest truth require neither alters, nor scaffolding.”
I’m excited to be showing at four openings this month. Especially fun, I’ll be part of two different group shows focusing on different aspects of the concept of sin. Here is the summery:
-A solo show at Float On as part of their visual arts program
– Sin? at Art at the Cave
– The Seven Deadly Sins and the Lovers Eye at Splendorporium
– First Friday Open Studios at East Creative Collective
Its going to be a busy month next month as well as I work on an new environmental piece to be part of the For the Seventh Generation. A collaborative eco-mural for the Elizabeth Jones Art Center.
Pieces from my “Seasons” series shown and sold at the Big 500 show
This piece is the first of a four part series on growth and collapse. It covers the emergence of civilization and equilibrium in the natural world.
This piece is the second of a four part series on growth and collapse. It covers the growth of civilization and the withering of the natural world.
This piece is the third of a four part series on growth and collapse. It covers the collapse of civilization and disappearance of the natural world.
This piece is the fourth of a four part series on growth and collapse. It covers the disappearance of civilization and reemergence of the natural world.
It’s been an exciting few months!
In Akko I find the places of my dreams, winding corridors, and open expanses, naked stones and presences that I partially recall, half-remembered, half imagined. We sleep that first night beneath the stars, high above the city on decayed walls, awkwardly huddled. She sleeps in an new sleeping bag, layered above an inflatable, sleeping pad, and her childhood pillow. I lay beside her on the ground, among the weeds and stones, covered, mostly symbolically, in her large, purple travel towel. It carries the fresh smells of the first flowers of spring.
She is young, pretty, stubborn, German, and deeply open. Come across the sky to this desolate place for some private reason, unknown perhaps even to her, this is her first great adventure. We meet as I am tieing a bandage around my ruined and blistered feet, stained in iodine. Despite a spattering of eastern Europeans, and the odd American, the hostel has been conquered by Germans. Here neither English nor Hebrew is the common language, but the dark guttural tones of central Europe abound. And in her inexhaustible pursuit of electronic dance and synthetic drugs, she is not alone.
The rhythms of Tel Aviv are seductive, and the truths, history, and lifeblood of this dry land are quickly drowned out by the cascading rhythms and delirium of the hot night. Is the connection so easily accounted for by the economics of international air travel, or is there something darker in this link? If the restless ghosts of Polish forests and abandoned cattle cars still so profoundly haunt this modern country, what then of the grandchildren of the perpetrators? What stains of the collective soul draw them here, into the Judean wastes of history?
Inside her exhausted heart; too open, too abused by cocaine and MDMA, too innocent and well-intentioned for these cold expanses of conflict and suffering, my companion nurtures deep reserves of Christian faith. Though she revels in the hedonistic extremes of Tel Aviv, the ancient names of Galilee and Nazareth draw out something perhaps not altogether disconnected. Her ecstatic descriptions of the drug and exhaustion fueled unity of dance are almost religious in their undertones. And most significantly, she carries with her sacred treasures; the written prayers and notes of loved ones. The scraps, are not destined for any monastic house or church however, she will deliver them instead into the yawning cracks of the Western Wall.