THE WAY OF WATER

If you must worship something, how about water? But don’t put it on a pedestal, it’ll just run off. ~

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We are one-with a water planet and water is the boss. Not that it has the slightest intention of being so, rather it supports all things. Therefore worthy of greatest reverence.

Being memory incarnate, water embodies wisdom of experience and demonstrates naturally that when you’re on top, your downfall follows as the natural order of things. Just ask any waterfall or dead tyrant and you’ll get corroboration that transcends words.

As Niagara falls knowing no resistance, surrendered solely to gravity and its own nature, manifesting immense power effortlessly. Solace for the lowly, the safest place is below, from where life springs and on which all edifices depend for their existence.

The solution to the illusion of being a body foreign to the planet, is water. Both human and planetary body alike are composed of 65 to 71 percent water, the sacred living element of memory, wisdom, and feeling.

Water is liquid life. We are born from uterine water, we drink water to sustain and remain alive, we depend on water to grow food, as well as to prepare it. Our body too is a planetary body, sustaining within the body of the earth with her voluminous body of water.

Yet we forget, and let those who feel foreign to the source of all life, pollute the land, the sea, the rivers, the air and ourselves, as one-with water in common, flowing within and through all.

Blinded by, and under what spell, aiding and abetting, who can tell, what kind of creature poisons its own well? Or, since profit is the illusion, poisoning the wellbeing of the whole. The sanctity of the source itself. Such a one should take a water course.

So, with deep gravity of intent, and beyond mere lame lament, i concentrate this force, being as one-with the source, and never was apart, invoking it through art.

As is now known, the voice, in sound syllables of choice, resonates the solution, heals water of pollution.

Spoken from the heart, and crystalized as art, i do dispel the spell, decree the water well. So saying, hear the sound, fierce gale blows all around. Intent sent in the aether, an answer in the weather, we heal the whole together.

It really is some storm, heard inside where it’s warm, but this is no mere prayer, rains arrows through the air, roaring round the roof, blows flames within the hearth.

It’s just a way to start, when needing inspiration, a warm-up to the art, of improvised creation. From searching for a clue, to knowing what to do, and follow where it goes, the way that water flows.

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Martin Rainbowmaker.

RAINBOW FIELDS.

Coincidences of rainbow signals and synchronicity. Rounding bracken brown bends of backroads in quiet late December, to cottage kitchen candles and a seasonal meal. Bare branch hedgerows flash past, talking of earth tone textures and topography.

”The land on the left always reminds me of your paintings.” Fleeting impressions of folds of fields smooth down to dense branchy thicket where water runs in a gully and all burnished and bushy as a nest of foxes.

Where the seed of a spark launches a surge of fractal trains of imagery and imagination, culminating and coalescing into meticulously manifested icons of intrinsic integration, yet who hears or heeds such subliminal seeds of harmony?

Kind shots of the spot taken, attached and sent, furthering fractals in microcosm and on turning to return, a rainbow, food for focus in folds of fields. So square the rectangle and sketch from the screen, long calm gazing into the scene.

 

Tentatively at first with a soft pencil, ticking and checking where the shapes go. Then bolder in black and with a matchstick making marks in the primer. Though works best to lay texture first, so when it’s bare bone bumpy and dry, drawing comes out like a brass rubbing.

Then lines become unintended tones when coated with varnish, the brush retains a residue of stain but neatly adapted serves to clothe forms in volume and shadow, tones of dark adding density within contours.

 

Dried by the fire, clothing the weave with colour, learning through layers of green a new mix of pigment. Illuminating hillside enclosures lighter than the slate grey sky. Delving in the substance and energy of veils of ancient green like a mantle.

While the bronzed thicket could still evolve through rain-darkened brown, though there’s always a stage or a stroke you could imagine modifying. Then promptly painted in the prepared rainbow arc.

 

Still thinking in the abstract like a soft patchwork or tapestry woven with dark thread and ancient harmonies. Textures in the flowing carpet of earth, pristine, primeval, and emblematic.

Just as when we form pictures in the flow of cloud shapes, emergent images of places and faces in the fire, follow that faculty. The hide and seek of forms within forms, forming features for further enhancement.

It’s one thing seeing a face never mind a race on the moon, or mechanical artifacts behind every rock on Mars, but reading images credibly into random is an art.

One where you’re aware of salient features but also see how you see what you conceive of. Change the picture by what sort of dots you join and the image conforms to the concept and so with the status quo.

Long looking meditation from along the shores of an impression, arrive at a landing stage where the tapestry all ties up, the patchwork pitch-perfect and the works on display are the jewels of play, so worth more than one might have to work for.

 

Maintenance of innocence and antidote to angst, co-creating fruitful fractals one with the biosphere. Authentic evocation sends an emanation, augmenting intent like a meme or mantra. Despite dark skies a bright arc of prismatic spectral rain. Immersion in the subtle transformation of an impression, unfolding in a fertile field of vision. ~

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Martin Rainbowmaker.