RIVER RE-VISION.

On Monday, January 26, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Reflecting on the slow flow and undertow of a river in autumn in full flood. First phase impressions coalesced, calling for further sessions in density and depth. Pulled into play by the possibility of re-visioning.

Deciding, the ‘River in Autumn’ was ripe for an infusion of transformative enhancement. So that the painted substance speaks of the living liquid essence of wild water. That the community of trees blend and bond among themselves. The air itself all pervasive as in a lucid dream, of moss drenched in riverine fertility, archaic arboreal rusticity, the slow surge and ionic breath of mountain water.

Subsequently, over the next few days, drawn into long sessions from evening till dawn, meditatively mixing and modifying tones of pigment on a cardboard palette. Sleeping, only to pick up the thread where i left off. Working to densify and saturate, reintegrate, illuminate, consolidate, sleep late and wake late

Diverging from a daunting complexity of intricate branches, to follow the flow of feeling, immersed in the poetic particulars of paint. Returning again to soften subtle anomalies as they reveal themselves, till all is homogenized within itself.

A rhythm of random nuance ensues, entrained in silent light trance. Mindful manifestations of a spontaneous fluid brush, at one with the fluency of fingers.

Distinctly familiar layers of instinctual procedure, tentative touches enriching the invisible organically discerned underlying blueprint. Each stroke has meaning, relative to context. Anything but the limitations of any preconceived style. The only ‘style’ being the consistency of uncontrived naturalness.

There are no words for the subtleties of substance, and the mark says more than language in the muse of meditative mind. An infusion of feeling flows from fluency in the fingers, having a mind of their own. Receptivity and incremental improvisation along familiar secret paths with no name.

There are no instructions for the free flow of imagination, visualization being already free outside the box. Yet the balance is precise as a tightrope or surfing a wave. To coalesce and enhance, weave and reintegrate the dance, of that which wishes to emerge as if by chance.

Popular opinion only imagines a mere parody of the painting process, its true nature naturally elusive beyond logic. With constant awareness there is no need to think. Long sustained pre-verbal absorption often self-reflects, realizing momentarily, the peripheral context of being in a room, a specific place, has vanished, the still focus all that remains. So much for time and space.

Attentively, intuitively scanning, in accord with an unnameable angle of vision until all is in place. With inevitable idiosyncratic quirks interwoven and tucked into a tapestry of wholeness with loose ends blended. Some may remain but let them be.

This is a serious form of play. Until it’s time to pack the paints away, and see how it looks in the light of day. Just as it is will have to do. ‘River in Autumn, number 2.’ ~

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker.

IN WINTER WOODS.

On Saturday, January 10, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

A collage of fallen leaves.

 

Seize the day, as they say. My simple aim was toward ancient oaks. A rough strategy for which part of forest park to walk, as winter light would allow, but off the beaten path.

While the path long lost like a lame lament loops back around in time, compounding ancient ground. A ritual, void of intent, a stray arrow loosed and lost in deep thicket.

Sealed through time with tar and cement, yet a single tree is wild and free as one which is one with wilderness. Knowing nothing of ‘nature reserve’, draws endless reserves through earthbound roots.

Returning to the woods on foot, a winter walking meditation, is no mere brisk jaunt to aid the circulation. A turning away within, in the spirit of mindfulness, in respect of our shared destiny, our dignity.

Transforming with intent, the worldly drama and grim pillage, to one of silent pilgrimage. At the turning of an age, in the company of sleeping trees.

A sceptical age prevails all around, proud of the progress we think we’ve found. As if we’d left the past behind, when the myth of progress is in the mind.

The loss of the now is the notion of time, that we’re moving between what’s ahead and behind. “It’s one giant step for humankind”, revoking all stories by which we’re defined.

As now, or so it seems, at some pre-pagan point within the dream, unmindful of the ground beneath our feet, the plot got lost in self-deceit. The wild stag vanished without trace, no wolves’ lament when the last was killed.

Through the woods, shocked silence sings, falls through branches bare of leaves. But for the call of a plaintive wren, in deep gullies of hidden streams.

All language fails while this water sound, is lilting something more profound. Ensnared by delusion that runs so deep, by language locked in perpetual sleep.

These remnant woods hold a presence sublime, our thoughts, an anomalous paradigm. While lyrically and literally, we’re hostages to history.

So, to ramble on, relatively microcosmic as a dust mite, in a living carpet that sees and hears. Not get snagged by low bramble snares that rip. Crunch softly not to startle or alarm, feathered folk in the underbrush, aware, though hidden and unheard.

To pause and stand amazed, listen to the silence deep within, and breathing slow. Stand as one with a dense, intensely vertical maze. Tall, sleek, slender, ground-grasping talons of evergreen. Gaze skyward where top tips touch in cathedral quiet.

To circumnavigate around what a friend later referred to as “the faerie fort”. A group of rocks on an oak-topped mound. Wrapped around with roots and crowned with deep cushioned moss, the way, one could say it was meant to be.

If all of this is holographic then so are we.

Some unseen force did a thorough job, but then, perhaps, it did itself. As is now known and shown, that leaves of plants and trees, feel, hear, speak, and see.

How sensitive are we? Notice how our plunder returns in kind with thunder. All life is one and space is no division, how then treat the sacred with derision?

No space without form. No form without space, and space, so called, is our breath of life. As Dante said of wonder: “Attaining to wonder, seek not further what may be behind it.”

Beyond that, is what we are, we are that, and that is sufficient. At least for now. ~

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker