Ashes

Long ago, and far away, this could have happened.

There was something impossible about the image of her as she sat, perfectly poised, yet somehow ragged in demeanor. She was an expensive wooden statue with a crack that continued to grow upwards, slowly from her feet, like a tree. The crack branched out into her face, and she laughed as if breaking tickles. Her gaze was glacial, like an oiled glass she slipped away from the present to be in a place without time. She took a drink and felt uncertain.

There was something terrifying about the image of him, as he stood quite admirably in doorways, forever arriving, and always almost leaving. but there was a flame that flickered in his eye, and it was a flame from the hell inside that kept his demons. Regardless, he looked happy, and somewhere under the veneer of skin, past eyes like stones, there was a beautiful ghost that could be seen in his smile. He took a drink and waited for a moment that never happened.

Beyond desire the wooden girl stood with her back to the Devilish man as he waited in suspension between this and that. And his ghost wanted to haunt her in her haven of timelessness, and oh how she had wanted to feed his fire.

Instead she walked away and did not look back. The crack travelled all the way up through her head. She split in half. The man stayed standing in the doorway, and ultimately burst into flames.

There is everything unknowable about the castle on fire. As the people looked yonder, they wondered, "How did it start, and is anyone inside?"

But the ashes keep secrets. They do not tell stories.

Hunger

Blank-faced
The little girl looks back at me
I turn away

As I watched him take her by the hand
I did not want to understand
How a wolf
Could tear apart its young

Makeshift Eyes: Middle East Show in May

Makeshift Eyes: Old and New Works, May 1st - May 31st, The Middle East Restaurant, Cambridge, MA
Tentative Opening: Saturday afternoon, May 15th

This flyer sucks. It's preemptive.

Primeval Mutations: Artist Statement

Primeval Mutations: (A collection of work in charcoal and mixed media)

April 1st - April 30th at the All Asia Cafe, Central Sq. Cambridge, MA


Primeval Mutations is descriptive of immaterial concepts such as the first thought (which is seen in the mythology of the gnostic Sophia) and original sin. In history these concepts are archetypes, or symbolic macrocosms that convey the human condition and the mystery of sentience while addressing the truth that to be human is to be flawed. On a personal level, human experience affects our emotions and our thought process, and also chemically alters our brain; the seat of consciousness. These experiences and their resulting emotions form a chemical thought structure which affects our perception of existence.
This exhibit is a collection of drawings that serve as visual interpretations which depict the process of metaphysical evolution through mutations in thought and emotion. Primal feelings rooted in reality, such as sadness, can mutate to a delusional madness; and happiness can evolve into the state of surreal ecstasy commonly known as romantic love. These sentiments are often fleeting, leaving us to witness many births and deaths of various mind states. Because of their elusive and ephemeral behavior, they are difficult to explore. Often times they leave us confused, for it is in the mysterious nature of the heart to feel both love and hate, pain and pleasure simultaneously. These images pit happiness against psychosis, morph innocence with monstrosity, and at times elegantly romanticize death. It is up to the viewer to personalize these images and attempt to reconcile the dichotomy that exists in the work, by drawing upon their own life experiences through conflicting emotion. Whether understanding or confusion ensues, whether two opposing perceptions harmonize, or further separate, it is important to recognize the beauty in this process of metaphysical creation and destruction, accepting it for what it is, and to appreciate it’s potential for what it can become.


To Touch An Angel

Eliza

"Let us get lost in the woods, until the sun must rest in darkness; 'til his last rays reach out to fetch the moon that she may watch over us!"

"That doesn't seem like such a good idea, Eliza. Aren't you afraid of anything? You know, things like monsters, and ghosts!"

"Sometimes I am afraid of things. When I am having a lovely dream, I am often afraid of waking up. But monsters and ghosts, why! Monsters are like majestic kings that a humble and ignorant child, such as little ol' me, should stand before them in awe! And a ghost is quite nice, like a delicate and solitary lace glove floating in the wind, free of the hand that kept it from flying for so long! I think I should one day want to get eaten by a monster, that I may turn into a ghost!"

Eliza ran off into the woods. The boy stayed behind and waited for her return until an hour after sundown. She never came back. And he had understood now, what she meant about being afraid of waking from a dream. As he exited the forest he noticed something frightening glowing under the moon. When he came upon it, he had realized that what had appeared to be a body was only a flimsy white gown swimming gracefully down stream, most likely nabbed by a thieving wind from his neighbors' clothesline.

Safe in the dark belly of the beast that was night, he was no longer afraid of such phantoms.

After I Killed You, I Stopped Listening to My Master.

“You must kill the thing you love,” my Master says. “You cannot love something that does not exist.” The water began to build up in my bottom eyelids. The crack on the surface of the ice was spreading in the center of a wasteland of bones. When the crack traveled to the shore, the cold water snuck inside the skulls and escaped out of the eye sockets. It was then that I remembered us in winter. And the small salty pools grew in my eyes, and overflowed like rain gushing out of pipes into streets. I was only pieces of emotions, scraps of memories, threads of the blanket that once kept both of us warm. And I could not reconcile these particles with the gaps and vague images of unrecognizable ghost faces. It was too difficult to understand what had really happened; who pulled apart the material, how the photos got stained, and why the room that once echoed our laughter was silent. But there was still love. I collapsed in the middle of the lake and the force from my heavy body broke the ice. “You must stop loving the thing that you killed,” my Master says. “Dead things are not worth your love.” The water was cold remorse conquering my lungs, robbing me of life. But I found comfort in knowing that the lake had loved me, for as it was dying it had killed me like I had murdered the trees and flowers, animals and insects that once were its soul. In killing the thing that I had loved, I had discovered that it loved me also. Now I am cold bones on the bottom, kept full with a lake of tears, once alive and whole in the memories of us in summer, before the lake began to freeze.

Mare Ibrium: A Chronicle of Dreams

Please visit my dream blog in its nascence. I am hoping for it to evolve into an interesting project, including many things. For now all I have is my own material/dreams to interpret, but will be reading literature on the subject matter in the spring and summer seasons.

http://mareibrium.blogspot.com/