I’ve taken up watercolors, by the way.
After all these years in the sculptor’s studio.
I’ve foregone the hammer which I have
dearly loved for its weight and authority
and the heavy, productive clinking in my ears.
No more trying to chisel and pound
the amorphous hardness into an image of my
choosing
(or as near as I could get to it with these human
hands).
I began painting out of habit with the same sort
of bold strokes and then I would fill in the
delicate colors.
But of late, through necessity and inner guidance,
I have abandoned all shapes, boundaries and
distinctions.
I put the wonderful colors to the delicate paper
and let them run where they will. No strategy.
No aim, no standards now; no communication
beyond myself and my Muse. Just a beautiful confusion.
The colors, whose distinctions are but a trick of
light,
blend and bleed into one another,
a crude, necessary attempt at return
to the colorless oneness from which they emerged.
O child of God, celebrate your confusion.
The blurred edges of the mystery are being brushed up against.
The blurred edges of the mystery are being brushed up against.
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