On 9 July 2012 16:32, Martin Law
<martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com>
wrote:
>Slowly waking update
after a fifth nocturnal nine hour session concentrating minuscule whispers of energy with a fine brush on a 10" by 14" canvas till the orange street lamps blink out at exactly 5.30. And rising at 2.30 after a good eight hour rest with no dreams remembered.
Thanking for your message from the P.R. muse department, nice to know there's another nocturnal watcher out beyond the streets
where neighbours process their televisual overdoses in prone slumber.
Reporting that the painting process, microscopic laser focus of imaginative light, diminutively inconspicuous as it is in the vast scheme of so called things is well and into the fine retuning phase. Faces must be the hardest thing to paint. They change before your eyes according to the light and angle of vision and the slightest sable eyelash whisper of inconspicuous nuance and modification and all is totally subjective and relative to what you just looked at a moment before. But the aim is to breathe life into substance through such silent invisible whispers. The slim brush, (a new one with a fine point) held lightly and weightless between generous thumb and forefingers like the reed of a wand it truly is and ever was. Love and respect for the timeless rudimentary tool, such that whenever i wander in the wild or wood, inevitable that i pick up a small stick or wand of willow, as if to dowse through finger touch the holographic link with all the mind makes in it's impressionistic meander. The sense of touch, of such refinement of gentle sensitivity the world knows little or nothing of in it's bombast bomb blast blind brute force.
More power to a butterfly's wings and the world we wish into being.
Meanwhile, healing continues with the small crater on my back as extinct as i can get it slowly subsiding into the contours of the terrain with a fresh soft dressing and blessing. And the next door pup yaps out the back and will hopefully let me plant the carrots and parsnips without piercing my ears. Having turned the earth between showers for air and wind, if not sun to dry.
Another session, or two, with paint should do , to bring the vision glimpse to fruition and completion. I will tie it to an arrow and email send when such is so, soon, i'd say, not long to go.
As the preliminary pencil drawing pales by comparison, and need not be incorporated in the next blog.
But 'A Love of Leaves', a small ritual of remembrance, where we see, momentarily, as if through the eye of the hummingbird, the lone indian woman in the maple wood , a clearing in the cathedral of falling leaves. Spellbound in a soft sun's golden glance, the palomino companion shuffling, breathing the crisp scented air. She, in the moment , gazing beyond time, with an untroubled bonded sense of 'the people' and to 'all our relations'.
Mitakuyeh oyasin. Holding the large red leaf by the stem, between generous thumb and nimble forefingers, a banner for the love of leaves, a bright blaze from the heart.
For 'The People'. May they live and thrive.
>>>>+<<<< >>>>+<<<< >>>>+<<<<. ~ martin rainbowmaker
>Slowly waking update
after a fifth nocturnal nine hour session concentrating minuscule whispers of energy with a fine brush on a 10" by 14" canvas till the orange street lamps blink out at exactly 5.30. And rising at 2.30 after a good eight hour rest with no dreams remembered.
Thanking for your message from the P.R. muse department, nice to know there's another nocturnal watcher out beyond the streets
where neighbours process their televisual overdoses in prone slumber.
Reporting that the painting process, microscopic laser focus of imaginative light, diminutively inconspicuous as it is in the vast scheme of so called things is well and into the fine retuning phase. Faces must be the hardest thing to paint. They change before your eyes according to the light and angle of vision and the slightest sable eyelash whisper of inconspicuous nuance and modification and all is totally subjective and relative to what you just looked at a moment before. But the aim is to breathe life into substance through such silent invisible whispers. The slim brush, (a new one with a fine point) held lightly and weightless between generous thumb and forefingers like the reed of a wand it truly is and ever was. Love and respect for the timeless rudimentary tool, such that whenever i wander in the wild or wood, inevitable that i pick up a small stick or wand of willow, as if to dowse through finger touch the holographic link with all the mind makes in it's impressionistic meander. The sense of touch, of such refinement of gentle sensitivity the world knows little or nothing of in it's bombast bomb blast blind brute force.
More power to a butterfly's wings and the world we wish into being.
Meanwhile, healing continues with the small crater on my back as extinct as i can get it slowly subsiding into the contours of the terrain with a fresh soft dressing and blessing. And the next door pup yaps out the back and will hopefully let me plant the carrots and parsnips without piercing my ears. Having turned the earth between showers for air and wind, if not sun to dry.
Another session, or two, with paint should do , to bring the vision glimpse to fruition and completion. I will tie it to an arrow and email send when such is so, soon, i'd say, not long to go.
As the preliminary pencil drawing pales by comparison, and need not be incorporated in the next blog.
But 'A Love of Leaves', a small ritual of remembrance, where we see, momentarily, as if through the eye of the hummingbird, the lone indian woman in the maple wood , a clearing in the cathedral of falling leaves. Spellbound in a soft sun's golden glance, the palomino companion shuffling, breathing the crisp scented air. She, in the moment , gazing beyond time, with an untroubled bonded sense of 'the people' and to 'all our relations'.
Mitakuyeh oyasin. Holding the large red leaf by the stem, between generous thumb and nimble forefingers, a banner for the love of leaves, a bright blaze from the heart.
For 'The People'. May they live and thrive.
>>>>+<<<< >>>>+<<<< >>>>+<<<<. ~ martin rainbowmaker
artwork : Bright Flowers, martin law, June 1997
No comments:
Post a Comment
Hello, Here is your letter box! Post away. . .