After storm.
Spinning above our framed parts, it was unclear who reached first when we fell and the silence to follow was the underground river after deluge sounding the strain of watercourse leaning into its break from behind the membranes of our eyes. The water ran fast but we held it in us as long learned, with late afternoon shadow draped across floored figures and our faces saw each other still dry, waiting for the coming quake.
The reach of an image.
How do you find a painting?
There is a process. Look. Cut. Collect. Look. Repeat.
Does it always work?
Nothing does.
Whose dream is this world, and how did we get here?
How do you handle accumulation with care?
How does an image become a backbone,
and how much will it hold?
Consider some rites of passage.
What are the rites of the soul?
When the oracle shares a meal with the nurturer,
what do they discuss?
And who cleans after it’s done?
An architect and a protector meet at a well.
Who is the first to offer?
How do you paint with the materials of a given day?
If the soul is a translucent heart, beating, what is
the reach of its vessels?
***
Inspired by the mixed media art of Amber Robles-Gordon
