A RAINBOW REALM

On Saturday, May 16, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Planet’s presently plopping like a pan of porridge at its peak, and who in the right hemisphere of their brain would blame her?

Forty volcanoes around the globe erupting in unison, thirty-four of them around the Pacific (a word meaning ‘peaceful’) Rim. Not called ‘the ring of fire’ for nothing.

With the Hawaiian Islands dotted in the centre, Kilauea Peak exploding forth in fire, molten lava lake levels loom larger, licking and lapping the crater’s rim.

Leaden lava flows forge through fertile forest, mowing down tall scorched conifers, turning charred timber to solidified hot grey cinder cement, undersea eruptions offshore Oregon.

Whole islands rise from the deep, some submerge. Intercontinental shakes and quakes, a tinkering and tampering with postulated particles, headlong and heedless of lessons of Atlantis.

To puncture the living fabric at vast expense, devoid of concern, even of sanity and sacred common sense or a time window wide enough for wisdom.

Hole-ism fanatic and extreme, pushing beyond limits, diabolical, deceitful, desperate as a trapped rat and, ‘only seeking but a minutest postulated particle of god.’ Really?! By looking through the wrong end of a telescope?

Being of course, in stark cold contrast, merely the tip of a metaphorical iceberg, and a cool sobering stern-face reminder to ‘chill out’. Enquire within. Just be humbly thankful for what is.

Just as Hawai’i could well be the tip of Lemuria rising, and who do you think will try to lay claim to that? A tectonic proverbial plate we will have to step up to. Relinquishing being a fan of oil-fed flames and all forms of explosion forever.

Thereby too the ‘natural or manmade disaster dichotomy’ and even the doctrinal primordial ‘big bang’ mantra. We do not consent to explosions.

Retrospectively, receptive of echoes out of the blue silence of May, almost a year ago to the day. Solitary experimental photo-shoot meditation, creative spring- time celebration invocation, A GLOBAL SPRING, (see archives, May 2014.)

Receiving seasonal echoes out of the blue as promptings. Equipped only with aspiration to evolutionary potential of intuitive aesthetic refinement and a blank slate. To dive deeper into those rainbow energy fields, so did just that.

Worship of explosions being the old model we will have to let go of as unresolved childhood trauma temper tantrums posing as power. All they left us with is a lot of holes, in the ground, in communities of families, individual lives and souls.

Whoreship itself, being a dualistic subservience promoting hierarchy, obviously, if you stand-under. Masochistic self-putdown, false humility.

Alternatively, energy fields is a better metaphor. They are demonstrably omnipresent and experiential. That way, you are not an anomaly among anomalies standing out in the field. Devoid of self-worth, doomed to disintegrate in a never present future.

Not a thing among things, separated by nothingness, which is just non-sense. As if something and nothing could exist independently. When you return to your senses that’s self-evident anyway.

This way, we don’t end up with a load of holes, or even obsession with controls, as when all is seen as separate and therefore other. As energy fields, we don’t end up.

Being already one-with the whole. If you were not, you wouldn’t last more than a few seconds, neither would anything ‘else.’

Energy fields can be and are photographed by the way. In particular by a very unassuming man called Harry Oldfield. You’ll find him easily on the internet.

While, i’m focussed on the aesthetics of everything, by natural preference. The rainbow spectrum an iconic overarching palette pertaining to and reigning over lush living diversity within the visible field of light.

Even though a finer frequency than interacts within the optical eye pervades and bathes everything and we are one with all as that.

The spectrum as a whole is most likely infinite beyond present perception. I like to express with what’s at hand. Imagine being bathed within these flowing fields and folds of benevolent colour frequencies of feeling as being our birth right in these realms. Rainbow fields forever. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

A LOVE OF LEAVES

On Saturday, April 25, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

If you don’t love leaves, then love, leaves.

~ ~ ~

What i mean to say is, without leaves we are lost. Absent without leaves. Leaves love life, and feed us through the sun, lavishing in abundance gifts of food and oxygen.

Lacking love of leaves we languish, backs turned on a convenient backdrop of out of focus foliage, forgetful of photosynthesis. Focus on a photo shoot, to frame faces full of faked frivolity. Forgetting, fruits, flowers, and faces are also absent without leaves.

Freeze frame photographic physiognomy apart, anyone may well wonder as to what exact unequivocal elucidation such obliquely slantwise allusive alliteration may be leaning or leading towards, being, as it is, apparently so literally elusive to legible literacy.

Ah, there’s the rub, with or without an eraser and despite irrevocable rewrite. Never mind what webs we weave, following a tenuous thread out on a limb, and just about to spit out subtle insight on the tip of the tongue when the bubble pops, blown away, irretrievable as a dandelion clock, as often is the way, with what would have been a worthwhile word to say. 

 

Save to say, beyond service to self, it serves well to ‘spell out’ the societal significance stemming from a love of leaves. Put plainly, the paradigm pertains to peoples’ priorities.

Are you bored yet? Or just skipping over stepping stones unmindful of the depth that forever flows in midstream? In abandoning shady banks, investing in the natural world order is a better bet for sure.

Thankfully, ‘money doesn’t grow on trees,’ or the world would be even more of a mayhem of mad axe men. However here’s a hint, ‘look after the leaves and the fruits will follow by themselves.’ To tell the truth it’s much bigger than that. The nature of abundance has a tendency to be huge, wanting only in interest and collective imagination.

True progress will be when we remember how to feed ourselves, free of regulators and middle-men, the politics of the poison pen, and but for them the earth would return to her natural bounty, stemming from our love of leaves, superseding and supplanting our need for greed, growing green without envy.

To imagine, is to make magic manifest. Growing from its fertile soil, imagination without limitation, and food grows by itself without technology. Dream large and in abundance naturally. A viable human future will be, not power plants and technology, but plant powers gently tended and free. Therefore without illusion of ownership, limitation, coercion, not to mention industry.

It’s easy to imagine what we wish to see, to cultivate what comes and grows naturally. A wild garden world without artifice of intrusive technology, earthfelt imagination flowing free, a haven on earth where it’s meant to be.

Meanwhile, inwardly forming these and similar paragraphs in mind, i go into the garden. Respectfully selecting a few cabbage leaves, illumined green-gold by evening sun, and leisurely take a string of photos of them too.

On checking back to see the latest shot, the camera freezes, jammed and refusing to function, recharge, or even switch off. The third one to need replacement in the same number of years or less.

Well, if such is the power of thought and mind to so interact electrically, with inorganic technology, and who can say it could not be? Then imagine what powers of manifestation are collectively held in every nation. Despite the drive to mind control with thorny briars to bind the soul, all cease to grip when we are whole.

Though we’re not likely to forget, where you focus is what you get. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

BLACK FEATHERS

On Tuesday, April 14, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Emerging from round earth’s brown cyclic season in increment. Bold black rooks poke and peck a pittance of peanuts on grass seeded peaty paths. Regal omen raiders, stark sleek settlers in casual swoop and grip, glinting unruffled rags of iridescent violet blue black feathers.

Phasing into growing green at a grass pace, and bud shoots reaching where a patch of sunlight touches. Willow pollen drifts down soft in a daisy haze and powder blue spaces.

Rows of rooks on rooftops, riders rising on the ridge, range around. They hop, warmed from brick stacks and pots and scatter, forewarned by the slightest human movement.

In an earthbound brown frame fading, morphing from wintry webs of memory and mist. Charting colour-coded solar cycles, synchronizing solstices and seasons on catalytic cusps of creation, waiting on the tilled, planted, and still warming earth.

Kaleidoscopic tilts and turns through tinted glazed glass fractal forms a complex mirrored mix enriched. Redeeming green streaming through the gleaming gold.

Turning to trace a pencil point and patterned web of lines to mark and make an exact map mindful of a manifested moment. Being some ancient and long surviving uniquely human ritualistic process of re-cognition.

Just as the body assimilates food and rooks peck nuts, the soul digests experience, producing art in the process. A shared form of spirit energy, language beyond limitation of language.

Unique beyond duplication, other than visual imitation in conception, no mere mimicry. Co-dependence countered and transformed by co-creation. Celebration of unity consciousness, indivisible, one with the process of creation.

This brown icon presently in progress no mere eye-con, a starkly monochromatic marker for the departing of winter, shadows cast show the light rising.

There is traditionally a rich and diverse symbolism attached to the archetype of these familiar yet highly intelligent birds. Beyond popular superstition and prejudice and into indigenous understandings, the stark predominant fact of their blackness is not to be taken as negative.

I was previously already seeking a subject that would resonate with the living Celtic tradition, along with an ‘inkling’ (a small black bird?) to play around with textures, the silky smooth plumage, and the rough and grainy ground. Texture is an important element, along with contour, light and shade, and colour.

I also wanted something simple. Is anything ever simple? Simple is up to us to be. There’s always more to everything than meets most eyes, and paradoxically, that’s also part of my motivation.

So then, these, and more, plumed creatures swooped down in a samurai-like instinctive flurry of black feathers. I like the sound of ‘black feathers’, at least the title is simple, visually evocative, and has thirteen letters. ~ 
 

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

A RITE OF SPRING

On Friday, March 27, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Inspiration is a bit like fishing. Though i’ve never caught a fish, haven’t tried, preferring to leave them in the water where they’re in their element.

 

Although, as with fishing, you can’t grasp inspiration head on, you have to wait. It’s a receptive non-pursuit like meditation, waiting without waiting, just be fully present, what else can you do?

Any other way is artificial and only results in artifice (arty fish), and the art of art is the avoidance of mere artifice. You can of course be present but not fully aware, but even so, your unawareness is fully in the present, where else could it possibly be?

Tangentially, though indirectly integral to the present narrative, when i put peanuts out for the small birds, the ever watchful rooks usually swoop in and dominate the situation and i’ve tended to deter them to give the small birds a fair chance.

So for a change, thinking to get a few close up photos of their impressive blue-black bold-beaked presence i put the bait out on the path especially for them.

They did arrive, but very tactically, and knew exactly what i was at, despite me being indoors. Timing their swoop, retreat, and apparent absence perfectly. Instinctively millennially wise to the ways of humans and our predictable tricks.

Though they may well have provided me with a preferred alternative game to fishing, as well as a potential new source of artistic inspiration. These birds are so aware and one-with their surroundings that they must have eyes and ears in every part of their being.

The preceding few paragraphs plus the photos are a unified experience, succinct and complete as a momentary happening. While, in the hours since, engaged in social activities, namely market day, i’m still left wondering and wordless as if still fishing for its artistic significance.

It’s not as if the process goes ahead all at once like some caricature of what we may imagine the process of making art to be like. Actually it’s quite the opposite. Typically, before i can do something new, the path i thought i was on runs out, as if into a thicket. Going nowhere, now-here, and happens without fail, except fail is what it feels like.

This could be quite daunting and usually is, for a while, but for the fact of it always having been so. There’s quite obviously a principle at work here.

Though with hindsight, undiminished trust in unknowing and a guiding aspiration, contemplation, preparation and application, well, who knows? It’s all an experiment anyway, and only as serious as we choose to think it is. To anybody else it doesn’t matter at all.

So i’m always somewhat relieved when i come round to embracing the fact that i haven’t a clue, all i can draw is a blank. Just another blank in a long series of blanks, all the way back to before the dawn of relative maturity, and until this eternal now, couldn’t even envisage sitting down to put words to it. How do you describe a blank?

Yet, there’s the way through the wood! How can you find a new way if you don’t lose the old one? The snake sheds its skin, the phoenix rises from the ashes, spring springs eternal, and the crusty crystalized caterpillar emerges as a beautiful butterfly.

So, i do have a clue, i was moved by something. “So now”, says the higher self (not as if that’s somebody else), “what exactly is it that’s so moving about it?” That’s where you start to focus in on actual perceptual impressions which otherwise may have been gone in a flash, a blank without trace.

Though the way those big blue-black bold-beaked birds so majestically took off on an instinctive instant, they clearly own the unalienable right of spring. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

EXTRA ORDINARY.

On Monday, March 16, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

I’ve been looking for what’s called ‘ordinary things’, but so far haven’t found anything that qualifies. ~

Meanwhile, while waiting, wondering, wistfully watchful and wishful, to witness from the window, winter weather on the wane. Well aware white witches and wizards of the world are wide awake to the wild wicked wily ways of the wilful worldly warmongers. Having winnowed a wealth of wheat from weeds on the world-wide-web.

Thus said, and delivered with more than enough www’s to trouble you if not double-you up. Waiting patiently, impatient for lower back pain to ease and warm spring sun to soften the density of composted soil and the cyclic return of light and lightness on all levels.

Feeding the fire in the grate indoors, in contemplation of heat, heart, hearth, earth, and the perennial intricate conundrums of the process of art.

Mad macrocosms, oppositions, conjunctions, Plutonic, Uranian, and rabid red dogs of war. Bursting forth from the retreating age of Kali, bathed in photonic light, as above so below. Literal last battles in all dimensions falsified, covered over, not covered by the cowardly cowering television matrix of distraction, and all the world’s at that stage and all the people pawns.

Pause to poke the bright glow in the grate, shift the vision, coal crackles, brittle logs issue sporadic sparks and gunshot cracks as yellow flames flare. My focus is on inspiration here.

The world is on fire, everything presented in a blaze of drama, flares up as if larger than life itself. Even artists aspire to do something big, something extraordinary.

Notice the predictable human urge to overreach, as if the ground that supports you was unworthy of gratitude. It’s natural to aspire, but only half the story. The outward requires the inward in order to be whole.

In being forever outrageously outward we can lose touch with ‘the ordinary’, (so called), that which all life consists of. Without affection and appreciation of what we call ‘the ordinary’, how can we hope to encounter any extra-ordinary? No wonder the urge for power and control. No natural affection for all that simply is, we become ungrounded in being.

Otherwise it’s like wanting to build a big house, but not liking bricks. Wanting to become enlightened in contrast to what you think you are. When ‘enlightenment’, (so called), is as you are now, having failed to become something you’re not, in a future that doesn’t exist.

I even put a search into the internet, looking into hundreds of examples of ‘paintings of ordinary things.’ Mostly pretty boring, as we’ve programmed our machines to equate ordinary with boring, commonplace with uninteresting. Because that’s the way we are programmed to think.

You know, “familiarity breeds contempt”, is the presumptive mantra. Whereas, in nature, any ordinary thing is extraordinary, largely because it wasn’t made but grew that way by itself, naturally.

The practice of art (any art) is to see through and beyond the word ’ordinary’ into the mysterious beauty of the natural. When what we make reflects that, it can be quite extraordinary. Then we are no longer at war with the natural world, presuming it to be other than our true being.

It’s natural and inevitable that we wish to be of a world that mirrors our finest essence. We grow to embody our relationship to our perceived surroundings, for better or worse.

All the more reason to be affectionately and ever more creatively intimate and curious with the simplest of so called things. All life thrives on appreciation. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

RAIN ON THE PATH.

On Sunday, February 15, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Slicing the mound and the moat into two semi-circles with a spade. Bamboo canes on the ground, weighted with rocks, determine where to cut, the previously celebrated circle, of water, clay, grass, and central standing stone.

Enough energy gone into concentric circles to open a worm hole or a portal or two. The crops in radial rows, while they tend not to move around much, do need more space to rotate. So it wasn’t long before i was digging more than just an idea.

A few days without rain, so, rough-dug the clods and sods of turf, turning into two half-moons with a central straight path, and padding down the corner curves of clay with grasp and pound of rounded rock.

So now, since rain fell overnight, i survey a choppy sea of sodden clay clods, with slippery path treacherous to tiptoe. So let it settle itself, till wind and sun come to dry clods to crusted turf tufts, to turn and desiccate with blade of spade.

Being but a momentary marker, a mundane interlude of transformational transition, extending the path through circles and seasons with no loss of symbolism or soil. No mere trivial thing, setting the stage for spring, and the awakening song, a stone’s clack against a stainless spade.

Warmed by fire in Hibernian hibernation, contemplating cultivation, and the instinctual alchemical forge to ground fertility. Returning to turn topsoil and chop, changing the composition with loving loads of porous peat, enlivening and lightening to loam. While bright flames flutter in the grate indoors, and evening rain intermittently spills and splatters, dripping from clogged guttering.

As above, so below, rain, a macro-micro microbial reshuffle, symptomatic blessing of larger transition. Nothing mundane about sacred soil so taken for granted, the tilth to till and tend from which nutrition springs anew.

Just a grounding interlude ingredient for the blog’s pot, devoid of drama, explosive revelations, the throes of empires crumbling to dust, structures buckled and blasted go belly up, opening all the buried cans of worms, while ‘apocalypse’ simply means revealing.

Turning the cyclic seasonal page, as Pisces morphs to Aquarian age. As quakes unblock some ancient springs, so to return to simpler things. All this, just a playful afterthought, for want of anything more ground-breaking and close to home to report. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

...to continue

On Saturday, March 28, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

...Hello continued

where were we... oh yes, stepping into spring with a spring in our step.

I do hope you are warm, and cozily nested possibly with the four legged furry people, oh and here's some more of these things (~) there's an endless supply ~~~~~~~~~~~~.

I did wonder to myself how your gig went, though i was in an extended time warp waiting wordless for inspiration from my higher self as if in a spotlight and gazing into the black of an imagined invisible audience of over 26000 wondering if i'd lost my script or my tongue or stagefright, or something.  But no, it's the usual rhythm which happens every time between paintings and poems going way back beyond the dawn of relative maturity and you'd think i'd be used to it but it's always new since the past has never been present either before or since.

But like any good cornered creature i did remedy that, if not promptly for want of prompting but by virtue of impromptu artistic instinct and turning unknowing unknowingly into a source of inspiration.  Not as if the higher self is somebody else and when all the denser part can draw is a blank then thankfully the higher part has a clean sheet or canvas to itself free of distraction.

So, still not having a clue and arising from slumber pottering and pondering poking the grate indoors i went and put peanuts on the path which attracted some big blue-black rooks and got a string of close-up zoom shots from the kitchen window though they were telpathically wise to my tricks.  So then i sat down and wrote a page about it, got stuck there for a few days till i was able to put relevant words to the fact of how inspiration is like fishing though i've never fished, but it became a completed article of possible help for 26000 people, some of whom possibly never having figured out how to feel inspired and so had to resort to buying tinned fish.

Then today i got a couple of canvas sized photocopies of the best crow shot (rooks that is) to make into a painting, so i have two new articles with photos and a painting on the way.  Refined the soil for a potato patch twice over again, which i enjoy looking at, bought two bags of blight resistant potatoes, and the delivery men carried six big bags of peat compost through to the back for me so the back is much improved in both senses of the word, and in saying so i do wish likewise for you.  Here's some more of these~~~~~~~~~~~~~>*

Or to put it more soothingly, some of these ~~~~~~~~~~~~~*************

To wish your inspirit upliftment and freedom from clutter of conundrums.

If i sound dyslexic sometimes it's not me but my grammar, bless her, and, well, these alphabetic permutations random as they may sound are like fingers across a keyboard of a piano which is more grounded and resonates in empathy for whatever it is you may be currently dealing with but i know you know.  This ramble being  a hello, a checking in, a touching bass, or whatever, a reassurance of presence and support, so you know you're not alone, i haven't quite mastered bilocation yet.

Anyway, good vibes as ever and love from me.

PRESENCE OF OAK.

On Sunday, February 8, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

In the beginning, if there ever is one, was the oak, and the word was ‘ac’ to the Anglo-Saxon, hence ‘acorn.’ ‘Dair’, ‘doire,’ and ‘darach’ to the Goidelic-speaking tribes, and lots of other names to lots of other people.

The oak embodies many noble and sturdy attributes, being both Goddess and God, wisdom and knowledge, and it was universally ‘ac-knowledged’ to be so, and pristine forest covered the face of the land. Hence there was more bark than dark or how would the forest thrive.

The ‘creator’, if one were even necessary, was, and is, eternally immanent, omnipresent, one-with the creation, there being no such thing as separation except in thought. Diversity being the quintessential component of unity, and all is wrong if only one can be right.

So whatever the long list of noble attributes we say the oak stands for, it, self–evidently is well able to stand for itself. Exponentially more decisively and solidly so, despite humans with many axes to grind, who think trees are made of wood. So oak is worthy of reverence for setting us such a good example of strength, longevity, and selfless service to all.

The most undeniably indispensable attribute to celebrate and be humbly grateful for, being its presence. Though it’s a pity to have to state the obvious.

Words can do untold damage if used without undue consideration. Since the structure of language is designed so as to infinitely divide the indivisible, right down to the finest fractal of differentiation. The explicit purpose, of course being to have an adequate supply of separate bits of reality, so as to be able to rearrange them in a variety of different orders.

That’s understandable, so long as we realize it’s only the bits or concepts which are separate, and not that which they refer to. Otherwise reality would fall apart. That being so, i turn to paint. How’s that for a neat bit of shape shifting?

There are already enough, probably millions, of paintings of oak trees in the world, and more no doubt, presently being created. Just an aspect of what we do, one with it all. So here’s another one.

My motivation is not to later swap it for bits of paper with numbers on, and ‘difficult to duplicate designs’, which we strangely regard as having intrinsic worth. Thereby playing into the supposedly ‘only game in town’, namely: enslavement to numbers.

Paper comes by common courtesy of trees but the real currency is shared appreciation. So, drawn into the presence of oak, the natural ritualistic play of creative expression is also a gesture of shared appreciation.

Art has more to do with gratitude, generosity, and community, than with commerce. The latter has reached such heights, or depths of absurdity, that people with more paper than poetic passion pay tens of millions in ‘money’ for one painting. Thereby keeping the illusion of monetary worth, as opposed to intrinsic worth, firmly established as ‘the only game in town.’

This playful wordplay preamble simply to say, i present a succinct string of chronological photos of the distinct (but not separate) significant stages in the progress of the process. Hopefully of more help to whoever may feel they need such a thing, and worth more to me to be able to do so.

“Do trees have standing?” The intentionally odd sounding question put forward by many who are coming forward in droves in defence and support, and healing of the much abused Earth we are inescapably one with.

That said, as a present and enduring firm and stable affirmation in representation, speaking for ‘the standing people’, the trees, of the ‘Presence of Oak,’ *

**** **** ****

Martin Rainbowmaker.

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.