Atonal Ecstasy Improvised Slowly
2009 - 11"x12" Acrylic, graphite, charcoal, oil pastel, on wood.
Finished with three coats of Krylon Kamar Varnish #1312
(Private Collection - Pennsylvania)

October 22, 2009

I used a newspaper collage foundation for my past few paintings, so it was time for a change. Pine is my favorite medium since I can make deep cuts with a razor blade. Look at the larger photo below and you will see the razor blade cuts everywhere. I created the one eyed alien, he created the poetry, and we colaborated together on the music.

The poem was originally part of a different painting, which was later scrapped, so I decided to use it here. One of my favorite lines became the title for this painting. I have been experimenting with music/noise using a software program called MAX 5. Here's a sample. If the file doesn't play, then it's because you don't have the QuickTime plugin installed.

Painted Words From The Eye Of Another Era

From black to white,
But also white to black.
Punctuated forms in ambiguity.
The idea of drawings,
Made of charcoal blacks from the imagined world.

It felt good to be outside.
A humble emancipation from imagination.

Follow the reflections of a world no longer real.
Completely empty for a time.
Listening to daily life at certain angles.

Momentary gestures disrupt convention.
Experimental sounds play an upside down keyboard.
An acoustic minimalist loudly became a distraction.
Atonal ecstasy improvised slowly.

Anxiety about everything expresses a yearning to preserve.
Day to day thoughts haunted by disorderly feelings.
Machines create them.
There is so much to tell.

With a string dangling a watch,
Thought may be cynical.
Pleasure exposes our personality.
Moving to a point in desperation.
It was death that led to departure.

A collage of images,
Printed on brown paper bags.
Replicated, and laid on a bed.
Nude women with a banana.
Printed images to synthesize sex.

A villainous white man,
Painted expressionistic cobras by a giant tree.
Step away from unobtrusive color.
Things in the world exude a quite shift in creativity.

One metaphor inside another, infinitely small.
Paint before us.
The secrets obscured in meaning.

Two are made of one.
One can be seen, but three transform.
Tradition forces the present.

I remember seeing eccentric objects.
Lonely, empty.
The sound of crickets.

Petals on a blossom predict love.
To be nothing remains the final act of reason.

 

Here is a larger photo: