Posts Tagged 'poetry'

406. The inner sun

This is the first painting on a new batch of water color paper from Italy.

It is cold pressed, but quite smooth. And the sizing is such that it lets the pigments sink into the paper, instead of keeping therm on the surface, as my previous paper did.

It surprised me, but when I saw this I decided to go along and have softer colors than the usual. After all, I can always strengthen some colors by painting a second layer.

When unexpected things happen to me while I paint, I tend to accept  them as what had to happen. This is how life appears to me and it is my path of the moment.

Now I remember that I actually wanted to have a softer painting, after the harsh effects that one of my previous papers caused by its coarseness and the different sizing it had.

As in many others of my paintings there are hints of fields, trees, clouds and an animal. Here the animal has the body of a big bird but with four legs. I do not think when I paint. If a line suggests itself I make it. Then I add colors and let the suggestions of shapes and colors come to me spontaneously. I do not plan and I never know how the painting will end. I like the unexpected. If I knew how I wanted it to end, what would be the point of making it?

There were two spots that I strengthened after it was done. The place where the brown is almost red, and the darkest green on the tree. Then I knew that it was finished.

I wrote down what I saw. Soft, warm colored fields, something that walks, sun, and the leaning of everything towards the right, as in the handwriting of many people.

I wrote a few versions of crude poems, trying to make sense of what I see. Then shortened and shortened. I took out from the poem everything that was not essential. I was left with this:

We are going to the inner sun

Through our inner fields

That soften as we pass through them.

287. Only light

New

There is

no shadow under the bed

in my new room

No shadow

beneath

the table.

Only light.

267. What is there?

P1000458

Thinking again about the choice of doing the blog as my direction.

It may feel as if I am an ant, crawling on a topographical map, among hills and valleys in brown and green. And it can also be seen as if I am the sky that is getting involved with the hills, the valleys and the ants.

Somehow it seems that doing the blog is the most forgiving occupation. It doesn’t hold you to a verbally defined commitment. You have seen it going in different directions. One day it was centered on poetry as it looks at life in a fluid way, not entrapped in what seems to be reality, but flowing away from boundaries of shape and time.

Another day I looked at my subconscious beliefs, as they could be detected in my artwork. These beliefs are what mask the truth.

Sometimes discussions of artworks spilled over to glimpses of how things are in these ever-changing worlds, yours and mine.

It can go anywhere.

And don’t forget that it started as a description of self-healing, and almost instructional pieces about the method that I came to find, use and share, and you could read how I viewed the sources of illness (In the ’About’ page).

This is why choosing a direction settled quite easily, in the end, into taking this blog-making as my thread, the line in the middle of my path of choosing and doing. It is a direction without a goal, but with a compass. It has no end. And I’m sure that along the way I’ll be healed from the physical ailments and more and more clearly will be living as an expression of the truth, knowingly.

For one year, when I was 21, I worked as a surveyor’s assistant in a copper mine. Two of us, the assistants, were given the geologist’s instructions to the miners about which direction to dig now, and we descended into the dark tunnels with headlights, heavy batteries attached to our belts and the surveying equipment, to mark with little metal pegs that we hammered into the rocks, which are the new directions in the different faces of the mine.

Sometimes we sneaked away to some neglected, dead end tunnel, far from the noise and sweat of the digging machines. We would sit quietly on the damp earth and turn off the lights on our helmets. We would be then in total darkness, such that you cannot find outside of the mine.

The world would disappear and we would hold our breath.

Why do people do things like this?

I think it is to find the truth. What is there, when everything is gone?

What is there?


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The healing process

Entries 1-58 show how I use the method of Intuition Through Art to heal myself from Peripheral Neuropathy.

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