Conciliatory Arbitration is an anthology of sorts. It can be argued that an anthology is not an ascertained fact. The writer examines the cause of the natural occurrence and decides which was embedded and that which touches the edge in awkward places. I suppose I viewed this force as an accident while another might conclude that it was nature’s will. Either way the anthology is preserved by nothing less than vision and how it subdues.
THAT WHICH SATISFIES me most is a fine still life; to discern the the role they play these miniature stories of fate leave pleasurable impressions requiring scrutiny and prolonged curiosity. The unique consequence of a good still life is that it is a statement alone describing everything natural, in fact as an essay, poetry or prose. One finds everything simple, smaller and lesser, a horizontal line holds all movement, tops and bottoms represent the sky and then the horizon; surely this is realism enough to anyones imagination. Was that what I drank last night?
Those who enter suddenly into the still life are likely to mingle as I do now. One thing setting off another: this appears to be my bias alone: everything admirable enough when it moves, bound by the superb cropping of photographer and designer. If this conveys well, to wipe my face of the perspiration while I contemplate until I become less bewildered, all objects turning my eyes, toward the comprehensible arrangement of objects in front of someone’s camera: a simple bowl of fruit.
It is perilous to look at them as lesser compositions, and yet I feel obliged to meet the dare: at my impulse and at my temptation: turning my head away would be the equivalence of aesthetic bankruptcy. I confess this fact: are you able to see its captured moment, as an inhabitant to its universe, and each time something becomes more shapeless until I look back, to compare and contrast this conscious effort as all encompassing. Other art is instinctively worth valuing, with continued fortune I behold that I have switched to logic and reason; this scenario has landed, surrendering rights to any other sovereign domain that these still life sustain: some in color and others in black and white. Is this what I will drink tomorrow.
Haiku: it consists of only a certain number of lines and syllables; brush strokes one supposes; but in each word or stroke there is a yet to be discovered revelation that bears witness to the illuminating moment along its entire length. It is not surprising that what attracts me to the haiku is its personality, and the supreme pleasure of being impressed by its simplicity without provocation.
Is it all real
I have been thinking
For a minute or so,
A experience prolonged,
One of those dreams
Departing from normal,
Exploring an empty room
And more inclined to stay a while
It is surely bewitching traveling along side of the river for most of the morning, knowing that I have another half to return. At a rare place I was able to turn off to see a crumpling brick building with enough flair that it warrants investigation. Of course it is kind of grotesque at first glance and I really meant to keep on going. But there was something worth watching for a while longer; hanging on to every side of the building my sights are bound to make sure I have witnessed enough of it.
Sure it was enough: an open door, opaque windows, a seemingly electric vibe that causes me to gasp. Now I am too lost in it; looking long enough and not having found anything else to linger over. This was my concerted plan: neither staying or being raptured about it, though it strikes me nonetheless. It has the same advantage of theater, except that nothing of it moves at all.
This one in particular holds its own: at any rate, I have not been moved to leave the area just yet. I want to have something to say about them: poetry or prose: the admission reaches deeply inside and I am at a more polite juncture. They need to be explained, this position a splendid one, converging lines holding steady from north to west.
There is at this moment nothing else to hold my interest, with the exception of rows of vines nauseatingly repeating. I just drove by several thousand at a glance, more or less resolute, and there is another ten thousand to go. Would the loss of any one of them mean that I might not be drinking wine tonight?
Nothing resists the invader’s mind; there is nothing to do but stop counting rows and explore the inside of this building for real. The passage from outside to inside is child’s play. There are rectangular opening at the beginning and end of this building, sidings held up in place by reinforcement, and the lines of full pained windows cut clean allowing ample sunlight to stream in.
This is the transient nature of transitioning from nature to artificial formation and back again. Step out, stepping back in it is though I am enveloped in a valley between steady brick walls. There is nothing narrow about this place; everything is changing with the reflections and shadows on the floor. It is a landscape: abandoned at all: the indefensible.
One arrives, one leaves. I saw more of this the longer I stayed: empty space with the freedom to become something, separate from the sky above and the ground below, letting me pursue it. It is even fooling me into believing that it is a middle distance between the sky and the ground, existing by and for itself.
My experience is not to be confuse for a greater conversation. I remained because I could not put my finger on leaving. I have long been accustomed to hanging around because I have a camera and a voice recorder, and staying just long enough that it could have gone either way.
This was my concerted plan. And in the greater ending I exchange my farewell greeting and leave with a lazy tolerance of business at hand. Sometimes it is just as hard to arouse me as it is to subdue.
The Palm Desert area is a strange place. On the contrary I have discovered that it is a mix of surprise elements that I cherish and ponder as impossible at the same time. You see dryness and a lot of nothingness at first glance. After all, this used to be a literal sea. But look closer and impossibly longer and one is exposed to an interesting enough ecological niche to withstand the heat of a never ending, endless summer. We rose daily to wonderful sun rises, long hot afternoons, and most impressive sun sets. Enjoy this pictorial and prose summary of our slow trip to a place we had never visited before.
Theatre of Puppets has just been released.
Theatre of the Puppet is a transmedia narrative and series of interviews covering life on the stage of life. The approach is kind of different; this is theatre with intensity; one emerges with the same feeling as though completing a monstrous workout. And like that you are on the other side of the room from where you had been watching so seductively.
Coming soon: A literary opera.
I witnessed these images in a dream. One cannot change their mind with respect to black and white images. Once you see the images and store them in your mind it is trapped; irreversible and rarely disposable. Attach sound to the images in question and there is an entirely new entry and association, perhaps even an adventure, afterwards. Personally I love and desire high contrast black and white photography over color—an outlook on life in the arts—it goes without saying. Color is complex, black and white is implicit.
In a human moment, each image I shoot in black and white reminds me of how crowded and noisy our world in color can be, along with other factors including touch and taste. If I were ever subjected to art rehabilitation, I might want to do so in black and white without having to handle the weight of primary, secondary and tertiary color charts.
Pretend this is not puzzling. Try to think of this kind of rehabilitation as re-seeing beauty: in the interest of tempting imagination, slowly evolve a new and particular way of holding onto the images until they are processed into words. Now, try to avoid color all together frame-by-frame. Was it too late?
Surprisingly color most likely crept back in along with taste, touch and sound. The images were the inlet but the mix was the outlet. It was not a wasted procession by any means, yet one did steal over the other in the end.
Pretend this is the law: the choice in question, resolved by application, which has the most significant relationship to issues therein: absence of doubt and precision are definite and with distinction.
For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to eliminate color from my dreams. My examples are as follows:
This vacation was born from thinking that I needed a refresher. It matters if I remain static to the conditions I encounter. A timely walk on a beach right before sunset brings par to a day where benefit is easier than before.
My encounter with a solo person on the beach was fortunate too. This is how I know that the natural and the virtual world retain intramural. Most of my thoughts were on a tourist’s perspective of the scene, now I can see it from a local’s point of view. My eyes and my mind bump into people who appreciate.
To dream is to customize reality; day follows night and not the other way around. Suddenly I add fragrance and the sound of a classical guitar to grace this quiet; then I move on.
Dreaming is a delivering of another’s landscape—suddenly it is living after sleeping and now being awake. If the body mind and soul can make this dynamic, who am I to complain with the results?
Chianti Dialogs explores the vineyards industry: from grapes to glass: a transmedia narrative.
I am too tired to fight fifty. The role of middle age is still not apparent to me, but I know that I will eventually get it—I have to as there is no other choice. Bringing this glass to my face I am aroused by the role age plays in the selection of wine—too far apparent. The glass of Chianti in front of me is deep red and the bouquet is richly berried, finishing off quite dry.