Inugami

Notebook Entry: 2009 Japan

I loved my daily early morning walks past rice fields, streams, altars and temples. One day I found myself in a new and unknown area and came across an unassuming temple standing on a hill, the path leading to it a series of ascending steep steps lined with multiple red Torii gates.This small temple–whose name was written in Kanji, which meant I could not point it out again–was more unkempt than some of the other majestic temples that were laced through the streets and culture of Japan. The coins at the altar were the only evidence of its local worshipers. The small building was encircled by old trees, a precipice of an ancient forest. The birds were singing, yet all was silent.

As I walked amongst the trees time felt suspended. Colossal and august, these trees had been dictaphones of time. They had a palpable internal rhythm that reached out through their branches and leaves. The fragrant of earth and bark was overwhelming. Within this eternal pause I disappeared. I could simultaneously sense and feel each star and planet, each plant root system burrowing into the crust of the earth, each heartbeat, and the spin of each cell in my body. All boundaries disappeared, an ocean of everything and nothing. Life and death merged into an omnipresent fragrance. I will never know how long I was caught in the splice of time, I only knew that I did not want to leave or exit this moment.

For the first time in my life I considered death, not because I wanted to give up life but because I wanted to give into it. Her beauty was so overwhelming and exquisite that I never wanted to be parted from her again. I wanted to join her. Partially my sense of place returned and I feverishly started to seek anything I could tie around my neck–a rope, a vine, a piece of fabric. I needed to hang from these majestic branches. In my death these trees would become my infinite friends. I scratched like a squirrel between the leaves and seed pods. I knew I could find a way, I just kept rummaging through soil and roots, but she was already pulling away; the ocean slowly froze over.

The last of the fragrance dissipated with the bark of a dog. In front of me a long lost friend emerged from the understory. His eyes a deep amber, his fur caked with dirt. When his dog nose touched my face I could smell his breath. Hints of fresh cut grass and rotten leaves. He whispered something in my ear in such a deep low pitch that only my spirit could pick it up. He disappeared just as fast as he came into being. Abrupt faraway barking slowly brought me back to where I was. Now just an ordinary forest on an ordinary hill but I left this place not in an ordinary state. In me was a mixture of the sweetness of life and the translucent words of my childhood guardian.

By |2017-07-12T13:03:43-04:00June 27th, 2012|

The holon

By Anja Marais

He is me, but he is also you and her. He wandered the carved-out path of faded memories in a daze. The fog lay thick in the dewy hills, and he kept walking through the curtain of dusk into the cobalt-dark night. When luck was on his side a star would unassumingly make its presence known. A frivolous guide with ambiguous directions. There was plenty of food for him alongside the road dripping from foliage and branches. The rotten, fallen fruit would squeeze between his toes as he walked on. He never stopped to eat; his stomach wasn’t nearly as barren as his sense of recognition. He was seeking “it”. He once, long ago possessed “it,” but it slipped away, unnoticed and unattended.

His only companion beside the occasional star was the hoarse wind. Softly, like a shawl, it would embrace his tired shoulders and lift the dust majestically around his legs. During the night shadows would visit him in unidentifiable shapes, moving in and out of the fringes of his mind. They were hardly memories but more like ripples in a bowl of water. A scrying tool of past possibilities. In his ambulatory quest he thought he saw another traveler on the road ahead of him. He hastened his steps trying to catch up. The distance between him and the co-traveler would stay the same no matter how he adjusted his speed. With adamant concentration he would not take his eyes off the stranger’s back, even when the fog coagulated the space between them. At times he would have an uneasy feeling that he was being watched but as he turned around the figure behind him had already disappeared.

The fruit was getting heavier and the branches moaned under their weight. They fell and burst like fleshy bombs over the road up against his legs. He noticed the fruit splatters on the traveller’s legs ahead of him as well. He marched on. The road would occasionally split. He knew that it did not matter which side of the fork he chose, it would always unfold as an intricate fractal of itself. He used to take the road that tugged the hardest, but now he blindly followed the familiar traveler instead.

He hardly rested, for the weight of incompleteness fed his restlessness. He decided once and for all to get hold of the strange man ahead of him. He picked up the pace and started running, an awkward shuffle, trying to avoid the slippery stains in the road of skin and pits. Behind him footsteps became imminent and louder but the fog never revealed to him the occupant it sheltered.

And then he finally stopped. Tired. Hungry. For once he allowed the aroma of tree and fruit to enter him. He reached for a full, quivering, soft peach. As his teeth sank into her body the hoarse wind momentarily lifted the fog like a flimsy lace slip and he saw the road stretched ahead of him, open and unoccupied.

By |2017-07-12T13:14:38-04:00June 27th, 2012|

The Solitude and Solidarity of an artist.

Notebook Entry: 2011 Key West

It all started with Prometheus.

He stole fire from the Gods and gave it to humankind to further their growth as a society. Zeus becomes furious, punishes Prometheus. He ties him to Mount Caucasus where a vulture will come each morning to eat away his liver. Overnight, his liver will grow back again. A symbol of the creative process.

This is my final note for 2011. A year of hiatus and redefining. A year of introspection and search. A year of cerebral mountains and pitfalls and also of growing back my liver. The art world is a complicated mesh of possibilities and probabilities and it is essential for an artist to once in awhile step off the speeding train and revisit his road map and ask himself tough questions. I gnawed and digested like an omnivorous beast through books and knocked on the door of every image and artist that I ever cared for.

Then came the dream…I am a small house.

The little house that was me was built inside a bigger house; this house was artist Enrique Martinez Celaya. His house was built inside yet another house. This house was painter Leon Golub. Golub’s house was standing inside a house which was the Greek sculptors. And so a house exists within a house, and so it continues.

The following night I had the same dream. This time I was standing in front of a big building with a single door. This building had a nameplate that said “Donatello“. Upon entering through the door a second building stood inside with the nameplate “Michelangelo“. Through the door of the second building stood a third building with the nameplate “Auguste Rodin“. Like a Russian doll it opened up to the smallest of building in its nucleus, which is me.

The composer Schumann believed that his musical compositions were dictated by Beethoven, and Auguste Rodin said that his work was quotations of Michelangelo’s.

After these dreams I spent a lot of time locked away, my only company that of the giants before me. I studied their choices, their decisions and their problem solving. My road map was transforming…

And for the upcoming new year I can only repeat the words of James Joyce:
“Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.”

By |2017-07-12T13:04:37-04:00December 19th, 2011|

The man on the top of the mountain

Notebook Entry: Miami 2010

We all at some point desire to seek out the wise man that is sitting on top of the mountain listening to our burning questions. Lets say I have found such a man. I would brace the acid cold and climb over steep plateaus to reach him.

Here is Giovanni Segantini (1858 – 1899) on what is art:

“Art should lead us up to that spiritual sustenance which is as yet unknown to the mass of mankind, and which will constitute at once the delight and the torment of future generations. Art without an ideal is but nature without life. . . there are two ways to see art, that may serve as a starting point, although they are entirely opposed to each other. First that truth which is outside ourselves is not art, it has not and cannot have any value as art ; it is but a blind imitation of nature, and could not be anything else ; hence it is a purely material representation. Matter should be elaborated by mind if it is to rise to the form of art which endures.

The second is that the lasting value to a work of art is the blind imitation of nature : All that the painter has added of his own, the so-called personal interpretation, the arbitrary variations, and the comments on nature, die ; while what he has reproduced sincerely and truthfully, exactly as he saw it in nature, lives for ever, and the furthest ages will joyfully welcome it as a work of art, as a good old friend, as never-changing nature.

It is indeed true that an ideal which is outside nature cannot last, but a reality without ideals is realism without life. Those works of art in which the artist has ‘reproduced’ the soul in the living and perceptible form, not the artist’s own soul, but that of his subject, of him or of her whom he was reproducing. This form of art, although impersonal, is nevertheless highly spiritual, and not a mere material reproduction : matter was but a means to the end. We almost invariably find this form of art in portraits painted by the great masters of all ages, and it is here that they have attained their greatest power, a portrait being a work which combines the highest simplicity of means with the greatest effectiveness in the art of expressing the living and perceptible form.Thus a work of art can only be expressed in a living form, either by expressing the personal feeling of him who created it, or the living sense of nature. . . .Tell me what else is art, beautiful, true, noble art, but the photographic image, the measure that marks the degrees of the perfection of the human soul ?

It is not merely by means of the beauty of nature in the abstract that we can create a work of art. This creation is possible only through an impulse of the spirit or human soul. When we feel the idea of art quickening within us, and we give to it all our faculties until it be ripe, it will be as if a flame suddenly warmed and illumined our soul : the power of this flame is irresistible, and the work of art is born and full of vitality this we deduce that beauty exists in nature because we see it and feel it, and the manner and measure of our feeling are in proportion to our spiritual capabilities. Thus a work of art being an interpretation of nature, the more spiritual elements it contains and reproduces with sentiment and dignity of form, the further is it removed from the perception of the common herd. It cannot be appreciated save by those who by means of long and patient study have succeeded in raising their spirit to the perception and assimilation of those spiritual elements.

These two definitions of art has led to the following results. When the artist wished to render universal an idea of his own, he had to take into account the intelligence of the masses, and consequently adapt himself to the tastes of others, that is to say, to the taste of his day. An universal feeling or an idea of one’s own by means of an artistic presentation, or to reproduce artistically a universal feeling or idea, by which the artist’s soul was impressed.’If, on the other hand, the artist was impressed by an idea or a feeling that was universal, and he wished to consolidate it in an artistic form, he could neither follow the free impulse of his genius, nor see the idea which had inspired his work sublime and glittering in its own full brilliancy. Freedom of form and of personal sentiment disappear, the ideal impulse of the artist having been quenched,corrected, and adapted to ideas determined by others..In art it is absolutely necessary to blend realism with idealism.


Art should reveal sensations that are new to the spirit of the initiated : the art which leaves the spectator indifferent has no reason to exist. The suggestiveness of a work of art is in proportion to the intensity with which it was felt by the artist in conceiving it, and this is in proportion to the refinement, the purity, as we may call it, of his feelings. In this way the lightest and most fleeting impressions are rendered more intense and become fixed in the brain, moving the higher spirit that synthetises them, and making it fruitful ; hence comes that elaboration which translates the artistic ideal into a living form. To preserve this ideal vision while executing his work, the artist must summon up all his powers, so that the initial energy may continue active; it is a vibration of his nerves which are intent on feeding the flame, on keeping alive the vision by constantly recalling it, lest the idea should dissolve or fade, that idea which should become alive on the canvas, creating the work that will be spiritually personal and materially true. Not true in the external, superficial, conventional sense, which is the stamp of common art, but true in the sense of that truth, which goes beyond the barriers of superficial lines and tones, and gives life to form and light and colour.

This, then, is realism. It enters into the soul and becomes part of the idea. The brush sweeps across the canvas and obeys ; it shows the quivering of the fingers in which all the nervous vibrations are concentrated ; the different objects, the beasts, the birds, the human beings are born, and take shape, light, and life in all their smallest details. The flame of art is in the artist, and by means of the tension of his soul it maintains in him the emotion which he communicates to his work. Through this emotion the mechanical, toilsome effort of the artist disappears, and the complete work of art is created, all of one piece, living, perceptible ; it is the incarnation of the spirit in matter, it is a creation. Thus by creating a work of art we render our own soul more noble and perfect, and sometimes that of others as well.

From: *Luigi Villari, Giovanni Segantini. London, T.Fisher Unwin, 1901, pp105-119. All images details from Segantini’s paintings.
By |2017-07-12T13:04:37-04:00August 22nd, 2011|

Friendship with a dead sculptor…(ii)

We were walking along the edge of the ocean’s foam apron, water chasing our bare feet. Seaweed piled up in little pyramids on the sand, oozing sulfurous vapor that bit into the fresh air. With his big hands this hirsute man spoke as he gestured towards the skyline, saying that it is here in nature that he finds his savage muse.

In sculpture if you become too academic in poses and style, you are making an absentee of nature and thus life becomes absent from your work. We must unfreeze sculpture, life is the thing, everything is in it, and life is movement.

You should be at the order of Nature. A sculptor should take from life the movements that he observes but he should not impose them. Obey nature and do not command her and know that there is no recipe to improve nature, for it will become a lie. The secret is to ‘see’ her and not to just look at her.

The wind picked up and carried his words away but did not hinder his monologue.

What we commonly call ‘ugliness’ in nature can become full of great beauty in art. For the great artist everything in nature has character and that which has character is beautiful. That which is considered ‘ugly’ in nature in fact has more character for its inner truth shines through more so than that which we consider ‘beautiful’ in nature. Capturing this power of character in art makes the sculpture strong with value. There is nothing ugly in art except that which is without character, that lacks inner truth. That is why Baudelaire could make the festering corpse about love, why Velasquez could render the dwarf so touching.

As we stood under the shade of the palm trees he looked up and said that he is the confidant of these trees and this ocean;  they talk to him like old friends. But his eyes now caressed the golden bodies of the sunbathers embedded in the sand; their limbs oiled and stretched to harvest every single ray of light.

Do you see their living detail?

Somehow through the years I have stopped paying attention to the loud tourist but with new eyes I scanned their bodies. The surface of their skin’s slight projections and depressions, the body itself a multitude of almost imperceptible roughness. Every body curved into an attitude, a story.

 



*Grunfeld V. Frederic, “Rodin. A Biography” Henry Holt. 1987.
*Rodin, A “Rodin on Art and Artists” Dover Publications. 1983.
By |2017-07-12T13:05:39-04:00June 8th, 2011|
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