THE OTHER WORLD.

On Thursday, August 14, 2014 at 1:13 PM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Before the Dawn. (A song.)

You say it's been this way for a few thousand years. We've grown accustomed to a valley of tears. We close our eyes to the trouble and strife, and philosophize it's the nature of life.

I dream of a new world that's always been here, but i couldn't define it to make it seem clear. In imagination it's easily found. I pray that someday it'll be all around.

(Repeat verse.)

Guide us through the night, lead us to a new daylight. Battlefields and shattered fright, there must be another way. Guide us to the dawn, through these times that are tattered and torn. May the love within be born, to a new day.

A change in the wind and a change in the heart. A long way to go and a long time to start. A mighty mountain that is so hard to climb. A rolling river to the end of time.~

RBM. 1978.

The Other World.

The preceding verses are the words of a song i wrote, played, and sang, in 1978. It just now resurfaced while contemplating the same perennial theme: 'How do you express the seemingly inexpressable ?'

That was just one attempt among many from back then, and back further before that. It's the same theme that has always been the connecting thread running through all my art.

Well, that was thirty-six years ago as the crow flies. I'm still experimenting, improvising, artistically and poetically around that underlying theme. It's like a zen conundrum, though it does bear fruit, and evolve perception and being. To put it another way, i'm living it.

So what am i getting at (or not getting at), and why 'The Other World' ? What other world ?

'The world' is apparent just as you perceive it to be, but has everything to do with far more than what we call 'the senses.' Nothing is fixed or immutable and we are, in essence, quite other than machines. An understanding we must never reliquish.

Machines might be a bit like us, (we invent them). That does not mean we are as they are. They are just manifestations of our current ideas, from one out of an infinity of possible viewpoints.

It's very dangerous and deviating to liken ourselves to our toys and tools. A digger is like a hand but a hand is most certainly not a digger. We are living organisms, and infinitely more besides.

Our actual essence is invisible. Integral with a boundless field of mutable interdependent relationships, which science hasn't even been able to locate. So forget machines.

You don't have to look beyond where you are, to see we have been deviated by a subtle intrusion of a false analogy, increasingly alien to our essence.

Next time you're in a plane, look down on urban infrastructure. It's identical with an electronic circuitboard. That's exactly what it is. If you break the circuit you are served with a penalty and possibly put in contact with a circuit court.

The other world, is none other than the one in which we live, and breathe, and have, well, some of our being, but are in no sense actually unplugged from the mainframe.

The other world is this world, seen through the eyes of innocence and experience combined. A mature innocence, wholly in the present.

The world of nature, the biosphere, which we are inseparably one with, is a miraculously beautiful and indivisible living network of magically sentient cyclic fibonacci fractals in organically self sustaining balance and intra-communication, and we are embedded in, and are, it.

Yet it's plain to see, we are infected with an alien virus based on rectilinear grid systems. The grid is a net, superimposed, and held in place by coercion and aquiescence. Restricting the freely self organizing flow of life energy.

Do a double take at surrounding infrastructure, and observe it from above. Easy to do with Google Earth. Alien grids everywhere. We are entrained to not think outside the box.

Whereas, when you are attuned to the other world, you're home and in actual fact never left. So much for modern cities. Rigid alien tombstones branded onto the nurturing body of Mother Earth.

The real alien invasion happened long ago. We let our guard down and were tricked by our own vanity. Falling into a feverish sleep, dreaming turgid dreams of 'progress' and vain glory. Forgetting sacred earth and life, worshipping the artificial.

We are microcosmic bugs embedded in a magical carpet, one with the weave. Not intrinsically parasites. The only scum, being that which rises to the top (so called) when the spirit-body-politic is polluted.

The planetary body herself, sounds out a resounding primal clarion call, (Gaia Sophia's correction). Activating antibodies on all levels in ever expanding concentric waves.

While, obscene, unthinkable cruelty unleashed rains down on innocence, with no remorse.

The stark peak of original 'war in error' unchecked.

Yet beyond all words, human innocence still radiates the one and only true strength of spirit.

The other world is not some other place.

Love, or you will surely lose the race.

Live together in a state of grace.~

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

Makes Rainbows.

Empath soul link

On Mon, Sep 15, 2014 at 1:13 PM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Just a moment of hello on the telepathograph~~~~~ the thought drift being hopefully helpful dispelling any remnants of bereftness as we know it well on many levels. Especially too as you say for sensitive souls evolving and refining, recalibrating our natural instinctive harmony and balance at the same time as being aware of 'normal' people going about their 'normal' life story and never stretching their imagination in the direction of simply relinquishing and revoking any allegiance to the unquestioned agreement as to what constitutes 'normal life.'  So to speak.
 

Just to reassure you dear friend that not since i left school has it ever impressed me as being normal and with maturity i'm exponentially more adept  at deconstructing the illusory pretence called 'normal' with authentic confidence while the bereftness remains an apparent planetary

phenomenological experience which however i'm blessed to have self-trained to put into perspective by filtering it through my version of meta- philosophical imaginative art, music, and poetry totally synthesized assimilated and blended with what is commonly called 'ordinary reality' and i say that in full recognition and acknowledgement that of course you know what i mean. If i had to go through the movie over again i'd probably still be freaked out in long term slow motion at how it's all so totally unlike the inner trusting vision of the world i came in with.

So i heartfully encourage you to faithfully continue to walk tall and deliver your soul gift blossoms fruitfully in abundance as is natural for a starseed messenger interplanetary creative Earth loving post~woman in the full confidence and integrity that the 'normal' people, though they may seem to fit into square holes (sort of) are dying of thirst for they may know not what but that you however, carefully carry the keys to, as the likes of us naturally do and are much needed now as the cosmic carpet is being pulled from under their consensus edifice of everyday illusion and amnesiac negligence of our hitherto angelic inheritance , angelically speaking.

I started the day painting the front gate as the sun shone, thinking i held a tin of the remains of varnish to re-weatherproof. But i realized it was the brown paint i'd used for the tops of the cream walls. But it matched perfectly so i carried on and carefully did the whole gate in no time. Heard a neighbour opposite say "What? Working on a Sunday?" I simply mumbled "H-hm" and didn't look up, continuing, thinking, poor man doesn't know there are no Sundays and i don't subscribe to them, it being only a word inherited from the Roman Empire, imagining how i would explain that to him and he still wouldn't cop on that it's always only now and while it morphs and changes it's not going anywhere let alone Moonday, knowing 'normal people' encased from birth in peer pressure could never make that leap into the ever present that no name could pin down but aught to be aware that were he to ask such as i a sincere question then he better be prepared for a broad and deeply researched honest answer that he may not be ready for, ever. Sundays indeed!

It's only Sunday if we agree it is but why call it anything. More importantly we have a job to do, just being as we are or however we happen to be and there are no mistakes only learnings and creative post people, star people, quite often feel bereft of a more benevolent shared haven on Earth. A most mysterious mist for the grill and part of the course. What if i were to tell him, take care now we're in the fourth dimension heading for the fifth and that's why people are confused.  Thank haven there are folks i could say such a thing to and unknown to him it's already viral mainstream and on course for getting better moment by so called moment till it just is but despite the lie of the lands we already know that from the start.

So, as i simply meant to say, "hello. More power to ye. Thou art not alone." (WoofWoof)  Or to quote the last para of an article i wrote today... "May you never get totally wrecked, or linger long in languish in the doldrums. May a steady breeze blow, billowing in your sails.  Stay aimed and on course for those calm warm waters and pleasant shores.  Speaking as an optimysticist."  

~  Love from me

TOXOPLASMOSIS.

On Friday, August 8, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

A POISON TREE.

 

I was angry with my friend.

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe,

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And i watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears.

And i sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,

When the night had veiled the pole.

In the morning glad i see,

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

~WILLIAM BLAKE.

Negativity is a spiderweb,

if you tangle with it

you're stuck, poisoned, and eaten.

What does it mean, 'to tangle with' ?

Well you don't want to become too attached to it, do you ?

Tangling is the opposite of meditation. You become entangled in your thoughts about something. Instead of seeing webs for what they are and steering clear of them.

Webs are very sticky, and how will you know if you're about to be stuck ? Well for sure, you will be aware of a frantic buzzing between your ears. As if a fly was trapped inside your head with no exit. It is not recommended that you inject fly spray into your ears.

The buzzing is simply what's called 'the inner dialogue'. Though it's really a monologue, as there's only the one mind it's happening in.

Except that most people are doing it, most of the time and that's a lot of people, talk about 'hive mind.'

A line from a William Burroughs book from decades ago comes to mind: ..."but what do they think about ?" "Same old rubbish everybody thinks."

As Eckhart Tolle says, "If people were to verbalize outwardly what they have going on inwardly, they'd be locked up." If you doubt that, then just sit quietly, and listen.

A line in the Chinese text, The I Ching, states that, "when evil is branded it thinks of weapons." Both the evil and the weapons referred to might alternatively be thought of as rigidly held opinions. You know, 'pinions', that which grasps and holds on tightly, for 'dim greath.' The Irish version might be called Seamus (pronounced shame-us) O'Pinion.

What provokes the affront may be something actual, or something presumed. More often it is the second of the two.

For example, he said this or she did that, and thought replays it endlessly like a stuck record, tape, or disc, and that's the fly in the head, the 'ear worm'.

As is most often the case, that she said this or he did that, is not so at all. The accusation is so often a revealing description of the accuser's psychic state. Psychologically termed 'the shadow', simply that which one is in denial of, projected onto others.

If you tell someone who's projecting that they are just reacting, they will just react of course, and then 're-act.' How many times have you heard "no, you're just being defensive" spoken in the mode of an attack ? "How dare you react to my provocation !" Silly isn't it ? Politicians take note, we're watching but yawning.

Then it becomes pitiably self isolating to a proud descendant of an O'Pinion. Especially as the separate self is already the illusion of isolation/non-relation. Which is why the fly feels trapped. Challengers to the 'divide-and- rulers' take note also. Grievance repressed poisons the blood.

However... you'd be a lot happier were you to realize, once and for all, that what you think, is not who (or what) you are, but may become what you are if you're not mindful. Or alternatively if you are eternally vigilant and dedicated.

Opinions are programmes. Alien intruders at an impressionable age when you had no alternative reference point to compare with. As such, an 'alien virus' which is not what you are.

Then how do you get rid of it? See clearly which is you and which is it. Don't just identify with the fly in the head, that's just a thought and a mad one at that.

The true you is in the heart, which is far more intelligent and flies free. Expansively giving of itself without retreating into a self-identified prison. "Ah, these are just self-immolating thoughts... POOF !"

The alternative is meditation, which is just a word, meaning, deep, silent, consistent, inner listening, without preconception, but with finely inquisitive sustained attention. No big deal. You can listen to yourself anywhere.

'TOXOPLASMOSIS.'

An interesting word. Used recently by John Lamb Lash in interview on www.red ice creations.com Having only heard the word for the first time, i take it to mean when a toxic intrusion enters the mind, and like any virus, mutates the structure or plasma of the brain chemistry to its detriment. Which explains why some people remain the way they are.

In so doing, inhibiting and diverting the wisdom of the heart. I promptly noted that the word itself has 13 letters, which in my view can be a positive thing.

I highly recommend familiarization with the aforementioned as being a crucial area of study. Humans have always been vulnerable to "trickster virus intrusions" of the mind.

The nature of the trick seems to be that we were deviated from being aware this is so.

Forgetting this, we let our guard down, 'for three thousand years' ! If you need proof of the result of this, you only need to watch what's called 'the news'. Except there's nothing 'new' about it.

Or any other 'programme' for that matter. The 'he said this she did that' show is enacted every day. Portrayed as being a mirror of 'the normal reaction.'

So that when someone affronts your O'Pinion of self, it's the first thing that sparks in the mind. The programme is already in place.

But that much is plainly obvious and self evident, having long been at large in the public domain throughout history. 'Hidden insane plight', to scramble an otherwise recognisable and familiar phrase... Yes ?

But who needs a television ? I've never had one. Who needs a radio ? I threw it in the bin. Why buy newspapers when you can burn sticks ? All religion ever did for me was make me a little cross. As in, 'Gladly the little cross eyed bear.'

As for 'the web' or 'the net', (avoid the sticky).

'In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king', especially if it's your third eye.

I learn more of truth, beauty, and worth, (plus info) just looking at the sky. Don't ask me why. I rest my case, it's heavy.~

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

Makes Rainbows.

A GAELIC MARKET.

On Saturday, July 26, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

I could say 'Irish', but that's an English word.

But then, so is 'Gaelic'. Margadh Gaeilge, a Gaelic market.

Between a lapping seagull sparkled harbour and high green backdrop hill, ant people are mingling on dry stone, drawn to converge and pause under canopies, fluttering flags, banners and balloons. Corralled by a foursquare continuous convoy of creeping buglike metallic conveyances. Being a pattern repeating over solar centuries every seven days.

A brief breezeblown pause among high cumulus clusters in the blue void, before zooming in through veils and vapours.

While, on the ground, diversity flashes kaleidoscopically into vivid focus. Market day, and a fine sunny day in July.

We are out in force, with a thousand conversations occurring simultaneously, and all unpremeditated. Nobody knew what they were about to say, or what they might hear or see. All happening organically in flawless spontaneity. All in a timeless continuum of a bright breeze off the sea.

From a hawk high vision of surrounding folds and hollows in the blanket of the rural psyche, pinpointing strewn remnants of generations.

Grainy monochrome glimpses of farmers' markets frozen in photographic moments long past.

Drawn to mingle and gather on a wide square of dung-dotted stony ground. Long lines of parked pony and trap, donkey carts against an austere backdrop of barracks and mills.

Milling crowds in black suits, overcoats and hats, the women long frocked and veiled or wrapped in shawls. Patient ponies parked, breeding cattle corralled in clusters, straggling children, and barking dogs, prize ponies and caged ducks, cocks, and chickens. The same tarpaulin tents and fluttering flags, frozen outside time.

In dormant provincial decay, hounded by the holy of holies and shackled by the angelus.

Wrapped in grey newspaper headlines of the smoke of war and sagas of uprising.

Why get stuck there, forever bandaging the wound? Go deeper, beyond the rudiments of industry and servitude, and ask a Druid. Echoes of Tara awakening and the 'real' fall of Rome revisited.

Because this time all the cats are out of the bag, and it's a different kettle of fish and the cows are coming home to roost.

So in case you wonder about all this fluttering of flags and what it reminds you of that you can't quite put your finger on. This forever urge to gather the stray living strands from the relics of dust and doctrine. Connecting the dots all the way to a nexus of upsurge and true tribal revival.

 

 

The peoples' market, a multifarious diversity of banter and barter, balloons, and local colour,

and practical produce, in the face of uniformity and plastic trash, is really a give-away.

Whether you trade with sea shells or minted metal discs and printed paper promises, it's a coming together in synch with the tides and seasons of freedom and fortune. A primitive prototype of all that's fair, marketing the surviving vestiges of community.

Rudimentary it may be. But there's enough there, local food, clothes, crafts, and tools, to expand a network of local currency. When the big giants crash, we still have a shared link to renewed evolution outside the mechanistic matrix. Practicalities are the prerogative of 'people', not patriarchs.

Instead of fake progress, things we don't actually 'need', which only serve to enslave in debt, 'a faith worse than debt.' Return to bonding with the folds and features of the land

and natural untainted food growing no matter how small the scale. If everyone grew food and the fields were full, abundance would be free.

Regional, local, evolving again. Wiser than when we were unwittingly outwitted, wandering from the way. What more can i say? Just a few glimpses of market day.

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

Makes Rainbows.~

A FERTILE CIRCLE.

On Friday, July 25, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

'G.M.O. = Grow My Own,'

Hilltop backyards in a warm wave of sudden sunny summer abundance. Rows of crows on roof ridges and chimneypots shift places and swoop over to the sunny side between unpainted stucco backyard walls.

A patchwork of fences, hedges, and washing-lines like an allotment of enclosures painted by Van Gogh. Makeshift sheds, purple drooping buddleia where red admirals flit, settle, and suck, among the arcing heady scented blooms.

Dog barks, child shrieks, hedge strimmers, power tools, and distant strains of outdated music. Seagulls sail in slow spirals high on warm blue air.

With an aerial view of rectangles in rows, and pastel painted diminishing fractals of gable ends. Four side roads ending in allotments and wild yellow iris in deep shade just before the tideline.

Some cycles of seasons ago, clipping a central patch in the long grass, i lay down, squinting into a high sun's hot prismatic glare, contemplating a future garden.

Till, with two sharp sticks and a length of twine

one staking exact centre and with the other describing a perfect twelve foot circle in the cropped grass. A definitive statement in a long untended square grown wild and crowned with a tall crop of waving green.

Taking a straight spade as a cookie cutter, turning the first turf clods outwards from the ring. Matted grass rootstuff, stones, plastic, and shards of glass. A single rose briar stem in the grass. Levering and hauling a buried bulky boulder with a squelch and suck from the wet clay. To be a standing stone, upright like a canine tooth.

But don't forget the magic in a circle. The primal definition of form and field. "With this stick, i make a mark in the soil." Serving the soil with affection in abundance.

Concentric to the four corners, ripples in a pool, and what i did, defies the grid. Seasonally cyclic as a crop circle.

Subsequently slogging the sluggish sods of soil, purging all inorganic relics of rust and bottle tops, degrading plastic and tangles of wire. Separating the wheat from the trash.

The primal form emerging, as in the painting, ANCIENT SYMBOL. Not to mention a mountain of meticulous mandalas of sacred geometry, the east, the south, the west, and the north. Incense, sticks and stones, driftwood off the beach. Chopping and filtering the soil for cultivation, but also really just playing with shapes.

Well, a garden's a painting whichever way you look at it. In that sense, imagining it from above like a canvas. Green brown pattern on the patchwork ground. A circle emerging down below among the grid of parallel rectangles. Serving as a compass and a sundial mound.

Till now, in a sultry shade of a breeze through the flavour of yellow, rustling the willow, the softened ground round the moated mound, and a garden full of diverse large green leaves.

People now reading G.M.O. as, 'Grow My Own', or even 'Go More Organic' and guerilla planting in the steets. In small country towns, planting in any available plot, outside the Bank, the Post Office, the Office Block, the Parking Lot, and all along the towpath by the canal. Spreading from town to town, 'FOOD IS FREE.'

Tend the rambling diversity at leisure and take what you need for free. In the name of intentional pure abundance, and community. It's happening now and that's the way to go, to reap the harvest of the hedgerow.

I pronounce a FERTILE CIRCLE grown to fruition, untainted, wholesome, and unbroken.

It grew all by itself.

It's an earth relief replica of an ANCIENT SYMBOL. The womb of the Mother Goddess.

The same symbol still used today on electronic devices as the 'POWER ON/OFF' sign.

Occurring too in numerous unaccountable crop circles, softly on the wisdom body of the generously ever rebirthing Earth.

The switch from striving, to thriving. From decay and decline, to new rebirth.

>><< >><< >><<

Makes Rainbows<

A LIQUID MIRROR, (Process of a painting.)

On Sunday, July 20, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

'One showing is worth a thousand words.'

~ Zen saying.

I just now completed a painting, titled A LIQUID MIRROR. It took around four days, in five hour sessions on average. I work at a snail's pace, as the process requires full attention to subtle exactness. There is nothing dramatic or emotional about it. It's a form of meditation.

At this stage, i am familiar with my method as to rarely encounter an obstacle that i can't resolve. To say i learned the hard way is an understatement. Probably the best way to learn.

The worst thing you can do is give up. No chance of that though, as it's my preferred kind of challenge, endlessly interesting. To abandon creativity is to embrace self defeat.

Never lie down on the battlefield or your spirit may abandon you. But it's an increasingly peaceful battle, no blood, no sweat, no tears, at all.

That being so, instead of capitalizing on it, (you can't put a price on intrinsic worth) i intend to share all of it. I keep the painting, you gain rare insight into how to do it yourself.

A gift is something shared, why bring commerce into it ?

The measure of art is not how quickly you can part with it in exchange for 'paper.' Or how much paper you can get. Anyway why be in a rush to part with the embodiment of your spirit's pleasure ? You're welcome to a print of it for free. A fractal of the source with essence intact.

So now i will give you a magic medicine. A distillation of what's going on here, complete with images, so you can see the process in progress. There's no loss in simplifying, on the contrary. Because descriptions always seem more complex than the action itself, till you get it.

I'm sharing dependable practical principles of procedure here. Along with feeling, so forget 'technique'. There is no technique, it's not a trick, or a knack, and you won't get far with only a mere technique. Technique is for people whose feeling is not involved, and active expression is intuitive feeling in action. So...

THE THREE BASIC COMPONENTS.

1. ~ CONTOUR OUTLINE.
2. ~ SHADOW AREAS.
3. ~ COLOUR/TEXTURE.

Image number one, CONTOUR OUTLINE.

Simply the visible boundaries of form. What we tend to call, 'things.' When we refer to 'things', we're just pointing out portions of the whole and giving them a name. No 'thing' was ever separate in reality because no one thing ever existed in isolation, being merely a concept based on exclusion, or to be exact, ignoring.

Apparent visible boundaries always have their own uniquely distinct character. That's an important word. This is what line delineates; the distinguishing characteristics. Without specifics there's no character, only vague generalization.

Trees differ from clouds, or rocks, or creatures,

but all coexist together in exact relationship, 'by virtue of one/another', both visually and actually.

So, in drawing a line, be sure it typifies the thing depicted. This entails a lot of looking without inner distraction. Just seeing, without undue effort to 'look.' Attention is present by itself, unless we think 'about' it. It's simply truth to present experience. Composition is seeing where it is, in balanced relation with everything else.

Unpracticed people are unable to depict what they see, without something to refer to directly. For example, how does an ash differ from an oak, or a cauliflower? I remember a teacher in school saying; "And don't make your trees look like glorified cabbages !" Now there's an idea, though it wasn't wasted on me, already engaged in turning over a new leaf.

So if you're drawing directly from what you're seeing, 'one look equals one line.' You can always erase it and correct it. That's the opposite of a mistake, we learn by correcting mis-takes. I'll draw the line there and go into the shadows.

Image number two: SHADOW AREAS.

William Blake is said to have said: "It's not so much the colour as where the dark areas are put." (Approximate quote.) Shadow areas follow contours, literally, as well as chronologically.

When you fill in the shadow areas you already have the emergence of form and volume. It's a nice way to start, as you already feel you're making progress. A procedure is helpful because it helps you to know how to proceed.

Shadows are a deeper tone of the colour of the substance on which they fall. So if you're starting with the shadows within foliage it's a darker green, (mix a tiny touch of black with green. Or even its opposite, violet, tentatively as that's a strong pigment, and opposite colours neutralize one another.)

If it's autumn, or rocks, or earth, dark brown is always a good foundation for shadows and shadow pockets within contours.

You'll see what it looks like in the photo. It's a nice feeling filling in the shadows. Now you already have contrast and depth, the yin and the yang. The polar parameters of wholeness.

So you can take a tea break or whatever, comfortable in the knowledge all is in order.

Image number three: COLOUR/TEXTURE.

I include colour and texture together as they're obviously not two things usually. At least in nature they occur together. Colour is the most luscious stage, as you're working with frequencies of feeling, like when the bare bones and structures bloom and blossom like flowers in summer.

I'm well aware it's possible to paint using only colour, having explored many diverse avenues.

What i'm presenting here is an all purpose practical simplification of the elements of drawing and painting combined. Just one conceptual triad to serve as a guide for further free improvisation. There are no rules, you're free to invent them or discard them.

Colour is infinite permutations, combinations, of subtle modes of feeling and associations like flavours of foods, aromas and moods of frequencies of pitch and radiance, relational resonance as within the realms of music, and i'm always patiently impatient to get to this stage, where there's no area of blank canvas left to be accounted for. Admittedly a typical occidental as opposed to an oriental notion, and you can quote me on that, if you like.

But all colour is relational, vibrating differently according to its context, whether harmoniously or discordantly, just like people. You can modulate and retune, fine-tuning and balancing one against another, blending or mutating, and who's to say precisely where red becomes orange and so on, all the way through the circular spectrum of the rainbow?

Vincent Van Gogh aspired to juxtaposing one pure naked colour against another, approximating the depth of harmonious loving feeling of one human for another and he did a pretty good job. Especially with the sunflowers and the irises which continue to resonate in divine sensual harmony despite silly irrelevant rumours that he didn't have much of an ear.

So forget "green is envy, red is anger, blue and green should never be seen, because you're yellow and black is evil and i've got the blues".

Or that some colours "clash". When it's simply that they're complimentaries of exactly the same tone, which is fascinating in itself.

Because these are all negative cliches of popular disinformation, disseminated by uncreatively incurious and terminally wounded life haters with jaded palettes who couldn't even tell you the exact colour of a sour grape and need to balance their chakras. Enough to make a rainbow cry!

So to round it all off and bring the process to fully integrated fruition, you bring the linear shadow tone back in. To fine-tune and weave- in the "dragon lines" (Chinese term) and minute dots and dashes of surface texture.

Binding it all together like a tapestry of veins,

'arteries', of rivers and streams through fertile land. The devil is not in the detail but angels may well be.

You behold the timeless tranquility of a living scene made manifest. Reflected in the rippled surface of A LIQUID MIRROR.

"I wish i had that gift", you say.

Well, i just handed it to you. Didn't i ?

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

Makes Rainbows~

Artwork:
        A LIQUID MIRROR, martin law, 2014