I write in red ink these days, it spreads across the papers I collect. The words passive voice; word choice, spelling error spill out of my hand, but I never forget: a soul lives in every word written. Every word spoken.
Disfunction. Misinterpretations. Repetitions. Wacky equations. Good is always on the horizon.
Sometimes it's easier to neglect making art; to neglect visual and verbal expression; to stare off into space. Because life doesn't always reveal the importance of reflection; of replication/ interpretation. Because who can tell how big an audience, if ever an audience, what for? These words echo the reminder: the reasons to make art are just as significant as making love: for history, for the better of the body, for the better of the earth, to spread energy, the earth is incomplete and boring without it.
Art is repetition, yeah? Of difference, desire, action, energy and so on. I dig the first image.
ReplyDeletesoup cans.
kim