Art is not Breath and Blood

Art is born by secrets, hidden in the fold of a dress, an afterthought of silence.   When we know, but cannot soften the blow, we make art and find glory in those perfect moments. Our hands and mind become the same and are exulted of this Earth.  Yet, there is always a missing.  A hole left to fill.  A darkness upon our brow as we betray what we call the reality of life and death.

Wrapping our arms around our bodies, in complete awareness, the secret unfolds across an ocean of pain and we circle down inside ourselves.  We turn others away.  Sleep is often a release, but it is in the work, the shaping of our personal hell, that we raise the walls and lock the gates.  Sometimes it is frantic; hopeless in the way of sending Morse code as the ship sinks and heavy eyes take us down.  Other times we are elated in the capturing of a small image, only a piece of the whole.  The way in which the clock becomes our quarter horse or the sky shines with starch as we wait for the sheet to draw.  The people who have made us are there…enemies, friends, lovers, relatives, strangers…the late arrival to the play, a wrist cut by glass, lost in the tall brown grass of Africa.  We carry the paralyzed girl up the side of the hill and tell her that we can do this…together we can do this…don’t worry, we can make it to the rim, and between breaths we imagine the silver in the golden valley below.  The fish wait.  We will get there we say, but alas, we fail and the girl’s head is upon our breast and she can feel our erratic heartbeat.  There is the sound of echoes inside our gender and the happiness we long to share.

Art is founded upon secrets that we strive to tell, but always we fall short, even the best of us are incomplete.  Words and paint and pink marble are not the same as breath and blood.  They can not hold us still as do our bones.  A mosaic upon a Roman floor can never be ourselves in the midst of our most sacred moments.  Art is only a preview, a past now lost, but as a substitute for life and death, in our blackest moments…those perfect moments, it will have to do.

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16 thoughts on “Art is not Breath and Blood

    1. I am feeling more and more that I am not here. I mean it, no play upon words. I am leaking, drop by drop…away, away. Even my dogs know. Duke

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    1. Thank you Mary. Creating is very much a part of breathing, thinking, visualizing, hoping, crying, laughing…just living and noticing the good and the bad. Creating is in the finger tips. Oh Mary…shit. I’m a wreck these days. I tell Jan. Fuck it, nothing to be done. Still Duke and Thanks.

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  1. This speaks to the weariness of my soul some days. I feel it. You’ve written this so well, it comforts me to see your art relating to life and art. It’s beautiful in that tragic human way.

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