The space consumes the form and the form the space. The terrain absorbs itself. Color sops up difference. Separations pinch. Holes twist open. Pathways stretch from crevices. This strange material is caught in a stagnant churn. Reforming the form without any original form to begin with and no final form to reach. Tossing and tumbling into itself, it ingests what it discharges and discharges what it ingests. Its gestures are traces; its cracks experiences. A static vortex suspended by its own force hovers through the emptiness.
I cannot depict what I see in my head with any accuracy but I cannot stop trying to find the metaphors. The randomness of existence is the only rule left. And that used to sound demoralizing to me but not anymore because everything I experience seems beyond my capacity. Everything slips through my skin. Nothing is contained. Gravity is the only temporal bond. Movement is existence. Light splatters on wet ground. The ground becomes the light. The light brings the darkness yet darkness is not mere emptiness. Emptiness is not alone. Emptiness has the greatest potential as that from which any patterns emerge. Each image can only be an iteration of something never whole or complete. What is caught or exposed (for lack of a better word) between these iterations is the point of stringing them together. The wall space is the wet plate.
Combustible swarms of potential energy possess the warm winds who scream for a sacrificial bonfire! Their anticipation whips up into a frenzy for the cyclical conflagration that will return the nutrients back to the charred soil. All we can do is await the spectacle to come and loathe its smokey purge of the flora and fauna we hold dear. What soft flesh is this that beholds such a sublime terror that marches forward so slowly then suddenly? That we know is coming yet arrives without warning?
as soon as the sloshy pool is framed neat the bottom falls out its contents gush over the sentient terrain
Once there was a queen who visited a village known for three kinds of art. And she went in order to choose one to lend her support.
First, the queen was taken to a studio which was also a toy store where an old man made the most incredibly inventive toys. His craft was unparalleled and his toys intricate and full of tricks. He also made silly toys and stupid toys for whoever played with such things. None of the toys elicited from the Queen more than slight amusement for there was nothing in it but craft. This was fine but not interesting enough to be deemed art in her mind because the toy maker had nothing meaningful to say about his work.
So the Queen went to the second studio. And it was a barn. And in the barn there were mounds of dung. And the artist explained many things about the mounds that he called natural sculptures in the barn that he called his studio and gallery all the same. The queen watched others, a sampling of some common folk from the village, as they stared at the poop. And never had she heard someone speak so artfully about such common waste. He said weird things like all excrement has been excreted before so best not to utilize anything else but that which already was and never will be anymore except as fertilizer for the mental terrain. It was plain to see that the others didn’t get what he was talking about at all, partially because of the smell of his work was so strong.
The queen visited the third studio. It was small and meager and in the back of a hotel where the artist also had to work. She was dressed in plain clothes and painted miracles of vision and wonder and talked to the queen and the others about the nature of seeing and showed them another way of looking that felt enriching to them. As the queen left through the hotel, she saw her paintings everywhere with people blabbing and stuffing their faces while paying not a lick of attention to the amazing work hanging right over their heads.
The queen went back to her castle and mulled it over. The toymaker was great but it was mere craft and not art. And clearly the painter made the best work of all and really opened her eyes to how the artistic process can be an investigation. It was magic.
But she chose the dung maker or poop proliferator or whatever it twas that he called himself simply because anything could be said about his work and the common folk who cherish what little wealth comes their way could never develop such a taste for his style of caca. It was clearly the most elite of all because of the power it let her keep.
And the winner gave his speech at the ceremony where he said that kids play with caca, and artists are kids, so artists need to only concern themselves with the emptiness of the most fundamental movements. The audience looked at him in utter confusion but they saw the queen nod with approval, so they applauded the new standard of what could be called the art of the kingdom.
Once there was a kingdom of cheese makers. These cheese makers knew everything about any kind of milk and knew how to make any kind of cheese. They held festivals of cheese for which people pilgrimaged. They even built a house of cheese once a year for kids to eat through the walls and floors. Not one of these cheese makers had any muscle tone. All of them looked like balls of cheese with legs and arms like toothpicks and little round balls of cheese for heads.
Other kingdoms traded with them except one. This one kingdom was made of people who thought of nothing but hunting and war. They spent all their time making blades of every kind. And this kingdom loved to eat so much that they had become cannibals. And they had tasted the meat of the cheesemakers and it was like a steak marbled with a cheesy fat. Only the other kingdoms held them back from destroying the cheesemakers because they loved their cheese so much.
Whenever a cannibal carved through a cheesemaker, it was as satisfying to watch how the blade sliced through them as eating them. But whenever a cheesemaker was cut, the smell that was released could knock a cannibal out with one whiff. In time, though, the cannibals could not be held back nor could they resist the idea of feasting on the cheese makers. So they did attempt to attack the kingdom of the cheese once.
The Great Cheese War, as the cheese makers called it, was won by hot liquid sticky cheese that the cheesemakers dumped on the cannibals. The cheese cooled and solidified them wherever they stood. The cannibals could not eat their way out of that much solidified fondue and had to surrender under the stench of all the cheese they had cut. After this, it was common for people to ask “who cut the cheese?” when someone passed away.
One year, as any other, there was a cheese carving competition. And one cheese maker, Klaus, was an excellent cheese sculptor. He had won year after year. But this year he concocted the wildest vision in a dream the night before. And so he chased after that dream and made a cheese sculpture that went beyond what he had ever done. The attention to detail was mind-boggling. It was the most elaborate miniature cheese castle anyone had ever seen. There were aged Gouda curtains and Feta rugs. Brie beds and Roquefort chandeliers.
Of course, he won the competition but after that he never made another sculpture again. Instead, he spent most of his time staring at his cheese sculpture. And he would bring it to the competitions year after year as it got moldier and moldier but nobody had the heart to tell him to stop. The moldy clump, that was a Käseschloss, was still a brilliant castle to the cheese maker.
Eventually uninvited from the competition, Klaus kept it at home and stared at it all alone. Long after Klaus died, or cut the cheese, his story was told by the cheese makers as a lesson to not hold onto any achievement no matter how rich and cheesy. And it became common for people to say to others “stop holding your cheese” whenever they needed to move on to making something new.