Just published e-book on Lulu.com

http://www.lulu.com/content/1064343

http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1198115

Hope to publish more of my works and writings there and recommend LULU to you!

"And Thou Art" .. we are One with all things, or so it feels in certain moments. I found an interesting fellow, Dr. Alesha Sivartha (1834-1915). He was a writer and an illustrator of life, I was looking at his drawings and his words. He seemed to have that zeal for life itself, in understanding it, in feeling it.

Sometimes you have people life Dr. Sivartha or Leonardo da Vinci and sometimes you have people smoking on a street corner asking for nickels and dimes, dodging the blue and red lights. You have genius and you have survival. You have knowledge and you have addiction. You have mind expansion and mind deflation. You have close-friends and you have stranger-friends, whom you see every 20 years or so, like a shooting star.

http://nichirenscoffeehouse.net/Sivartha/index.html

Let me tell you what is happening.

A man at the train station saw my art work in the folder portfolio. He happened to be one of the directors of the art guild and recreation centers in Rahway. His name is Ally. He said when he returns from vacation he wants to give me exposure in Rahway, and maybe other places. My sister said the other Art director was asking about me and wants me to work in his art gallery, the Art Guild in Rahway. Out of nowhere this happened.

I went to a poetry reading in New York at the Planet One Cafe, with my friend Isaiah, who is a DJ and spinner, poet and educator of world history. A woman there saw some of my work and is interested in somehow exposing it. She said now she is working with a French artist painter in curating his show. She is a curator.

I am taking a sculpture class with Seth Goodwin, the director of the Red Saw Gallery. He has been offering me much advice and coucil. He has been on me about getting a website, and suggested a man by the name of Sebastian, his former roomate, who lives now in Jersey City. So I might be meeting with him to begin that process.

Lets see what will happen ...

I've been working in the art Gallery at Kean. The current Exhibition is Called East TRansplanted West. 7 Chinese Artists in America.

Behind all of this I am filled with assignments and projects for school, and paintings and collages and realtor magazine comic books with homeless drawings glued and juxtaposed onto black and white houses of stone and brick, glass and fancy railings. Imagine that! I'm trying to travel to every train station on the two rails that I ride, from north to south of New Jersey. I just feel that expressing the emotion and reality and fantasy and allegory of New Jersey can be seen through the destination and departing stops of our lives, sip sip, puff puff, hello hello, snap snap, play play, hey hey, scream screaM !

I paint AL and DErick, major works I feel, LArge. More paint than usual. More COllage. More texture in the face of AL. More interior emotion and narrative in the body of Derick. Backgrounds merge with Foregrounds. Works look like palets, works are becoming like Sketchbooks, works are coming alive, I feel.

I spoke with my one painting instructor, who is Polish, and a great figurative painter, who shows in Chelsea, NEw York. She said a lot of my art work was derivative of modern art, like Chagall or Basquiat, because I wrote text in my art work or painted a face with a double eye or tilted head. I didn't know what to really feel. I understand it is important to be aware of your influences, to know who came before you and who did what. She did say the work was mine and that it was very personal.

When I paint I try to paint the series of sights and sensations that have somehow found there way to my eye and mind and soul, and I try to transfer these kinetic spasms and splotches of color and beams that carry word into a painting, or whatever you call my works, maybe just art. an art of something. I'm trying, I am really trying, to just paint for the sake of living and trying to extend the image like a limb or a bough or a bridge to the stranger man or the stranger woman, to weld experience and dream, thoughts and storms.

This is what has been happening ...

Sometimes I think that the process of creating art, i.e. photographing, sketching on trains, painting stains on cotton canvas, sitting and listening to music, glueing scraps of paper, smudging oil on clothes, I sometimes think it is something just of my own world, my own subjective interpretation, or understanding, of this world around my eyes, and that maybe it isn't so important.

But then when the art itself, by itself, looks back at me, it is a look of powerful Spirit and greater than anything I intended, immersing my self into the art so deep that it is now impossible to abandon this life of creation, or so it feels. To look at the process, to see it developing and docking like the boats at bay, buzzes the mind and brings a joy to the Spirit.

This here is a close-up of one of the works in the show at Red Saw Gallery. I centered in on the sketch book, which is close in this photo, but the viewer can feel free to open it and look inside, to see the drawings, the other people the artist saw and heard. The sketch book was a way to include them. IT was a way to let them in, to offer another dimension, more space. There is always enough room. We can always find a way. But that is not the only reason. I want the viewer to look at the work as if it is like a story, for it to be an intimate encounter, a searching, a reading, a discovering. Like when reading books or a novel or an art journal or your long lost mother's diary that she might have left behind.

RED SAW
Presents
PULP
works on paper

June 2nd-23
Reception June 2nd 6-9

Daniel Brophy
Sarah Davis
Matthew di Leo
Jerry Gant
Johann Joshnowitz
Michael Metzger
Erick Osman
Jesse Wright

Curated by Seth Goodwin
After party at 27MIX

Red Saw Gallery
585 Broad Street, Newark, NJ 07102
redsawart@gmail.com www. Redsawart.com
Open Thursdays 6-9 and by appt.

The "Works on Paper" show is coming up soon. IT is from June 2-26, at the Red Saw Gallery, redsawart.com is the website. I have been working for many hours, going through many cds of music, from rock, to pop, to classical, to electronic, moving fast and slow, organized and shuffled, nevertheless I have been on track painting these tracks. I've been superimposing my soul into these works. They are intimate works. They are like some of the earlier train station works, but something new about them is happening.

I've been growing more confident in the art. Some days I am not so confident. So I pray. I pray for the strength to believe and have faith. I pray that my mind will be calmed. I pray that the imagery of this life flows into it just enough so that I can create an important art for those who wish to look.

Tomorrow the gallery director comes to my studio. He will choose which ones he wants for the show. He said that he would like 5-7 of my works in the show. I hope some of them are not too big. I hope he likes what has happened in that attic over the past 2 weeks.

One night I decided to paint AL. I began drawing with vinal charcoal on a piece of board I found. The next morning AL was in the tunnel (AL was missing for a year).

I have been painting with the creamy oils. Painting AL's face almost made me cry. I was thinking I might want to give the Bridge painting to Bono. I'm finishing up the semester, studying Kant and Hatshepsut.

I believe art can perform the act of a miracle if the artist is willing to follow through and act with it. I was thinking about the artist and how the artist invests his time in the stages inbetween the rest and art-making act. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about how far do I really want to go with the power of art. I believe Plato had something to say about beauty. I believe Kant had something to say about Beauty. I believe all of us have something to contribute to beauty and what that really means for the world and for ourselves.

I went underneath the bRidge last night. Its such an empty place. I wonder where all those people came from in the painting?

I was thinking last night. I was thinking, "all these things underneath this bridge, (i.e., plastic forks, soup tins, grocery cart wheels, broken vhs camera, metal crate, bottles, stones), all of it, all of it left-over, the remnants of someone's desperate hour or hours, someone's shadowy escape. why do I find myself looking at this trash. but is it trash? it was once touched by human fingers. Why do I find myself picking up a piece of ripped clothing stained with dry blood, tucking it into my sketch folder? Its so empty underneath here, its so rocky, so dark and lonely." All I knew was that I needed to be there. I need to sometimes be there, to wait there, to lean against the wall there. It is like some monastary. It just feels good to be out and to watch the world, even the lonely world, or lost civilization(s) underneath the bridge.

I was thinking. I walk to look. I was thinking. Whenever one goes to walk, something will happen to them, a person will stop you in your tracks. I was stopped. His name was roB. He said, "do you got 50 cents for my friend here who needs to get home?" After checking my pockets, I said, "No, I don't. I use my money for paint. I usually don't have any money on me." Rob and his friend asked me, "What do you paint?" I told them, "I paint people." Rob's friend responded, "You can make a lot of money doing that!" Rob said, "Hey man, do you think you can design my tatoo?" I said, "Maybe."

Rob's friend left. It was just me and Rob. I've seen Rob around, just never spoke with him. He said, "Why do your drawings look like that, like broken people?" I said, "Its just what happened when I was drawing. Sometimes I am not always in control. I feel more free drawing like this." We then drew some windows on this train I drew earlier. He said, "I am f... drunk, hope you don't mind ... I work too much, I have no time."

That was it really. He looked drunk. His head was hanging. He spilled his orange soda and yelled, "Oh shit!"

I've been passing in and out of consciousness, whatever this means.

So this is what is going on. The bridge is safe in the gallery. One of my professors wants to come to my studio and buy another piece, a larger piece, the same professor who bought "Empty Pockets." The briDge hangs. The paints have arrived. I ate Tofu at a friend's house.

Tomorrow is the Exhibition opening for us students. The Bridge is on the faR back wall in the Middle of the Gallery, exactly where I imagined it to be, and it was there when I walked in today. ThE bridge speaks all Languages. It tilts. IT spills. It has no home, just temporarily renting out in this space. (It cannot fit in my house, so I have to figure out what to do with it after the show.)

People have been looking at the bridge, close and from afar, and have asked about the bridge. IT has been good to talk about the bridge. People have talked about hope underneath the bridge. People have said how so much is happening. Some people cannot stand there too long, they walk away ... maybe afraid to confront it for what it might reveal to them. I don't know. Most people have stood there and really looked, which is what I hope for, it is for them, I did it for them.

Feelings change every day, every second, even ... you cannot always depend upon or believe them ... the other day I was depressed about the paintings, like "what am I doing?" ... then with a couple of glazed strokes here and there in a new bridge painting and the thought of the first bridge being hung in the gallery made me feel "good, aware and confident" in the paintings.

If the artist can just paint the right amount of strokes each day ... he will know refreshing mists of rain on his face ...

I have a meeting with the city of Elizabeth about the Bridge Exhibition. The Youth and Culture Department want to see the art, to give a presentation. I emailed them and was told to call them. So I did that. And now this is the next step. I want to buy a portfolio book and put digital images in it, along with writings, and maybe a dvd. All I can do is let the art speak for itself as itself.

I contacted Matt today, he is coming over to build the frame for the Bridge Painting, which will be in the Large Kean Gallery across from where I had the show. I am excited to see it stretched and ready to hanG. I feel close to this painting, like something is new about it, something that combined all the paintings into one. I don't know.

I called Derick in the tunnel, I think his mother picked up, she said she hadn't seen him in 3 days. His girlfriend's number was not available. I will keep trying, or wait for his call. We are going to have a collaborative tunnel art event, jazz and painting.

The tips of tubes
are now chimneys
and smoke-stacks,
oozing with paint,
paint as puffs of smoke.

I have been lacking in the reading. I have been caught up underneath the bridge for most of my days...

Sometimes I do not even recognize my own working.
Things just happen.

I stapled a cotton canvas to my purple wall. I began painting it. It is another bridge. Acrylics and colored pencils and gesso and pens and pencils. It is empty, lacking human presence.

What is this bridge? The bridge is something that I pass by in my daily walk to and from the university. The bridge that I have been painting, however, does not resemble the bridge that I pass by. I have brought the arc into existence. These painted bridges resemble the arcs in the Pont Du Gard in Tarascon, Les Baux, St. Remy. I feel that the architecture of the bridge is the dominant iconography for a universal bridge. I feel that it is strong and spiritual.

I once saw a man underneath the bridge, awaking from the the weeds and stretching his arms to the sky, yawning. He just woke up. I stood there for a while. I thought to myself, “What a brave thing it is to sleep underneath a bridge, to sleep outside, by yourself, in weeds, amongst garbage and critters.” As time went on, I began to formulate a community that took part in the shelter of the bridge. The bridge is under construction.

The bridge stands on its own. The bridge is the work of a 21-year old artist who is sometimes obsessively aware of his surroundings or aware of nothing-at-all, save his own walking feet and a few wrappers here and there. The artist looks at things. Objects. Forms. I pass by a dead mouse almost everyday. It is on its back at the base of an oak’s leg. Its too small to be noticed by the city who clean up the road kill. It slowly disintegrates into the earth. My mother says, “Animals do not have a mind, do not have a soul, do not have a spirit.” This is the fundamental Protestant belief. Human-beings are the highest form of creation.

I want to paint a broken bridge. I want to paint the man yawning out from the weeds. I want to paint drug-dealers dealing behind one of the pillars. I want to paint AL sticking himself with a heroin-needle. I want to paint his daughter looking for him in the weeds. I want to paint a beautiful woman who walks underneath the bridge for no apparent reason except that she is curious of the sounds and echoes she heard coming from there. I want to paint two rival gangs about to slash each other to bits. I want to paint what happens, what is shouted outside...

Engage yourself. Explore youself.

A quantum leap has happened, a dosage of "miracle's drug" has happened, the avant-garde of the tunneL has happened! Last Night the sTage belonged to Derick, "Derick in the TunneL". HE played foR me the tune "Passion" and spoke about the Art and his life afterwords. We wish to work with the tunnel, in the tunnel as a collaboration of visual and jazz art. I can re-learn the sax I once played and join him, maybe. I wish to paint him in the tunnel as he plays on a large vertical canvas. The tunnel will no longer be a tunnel to pass through, but to stop in, and listen and watch. And another thing, I have it all on tape!

Last night, it was a miracLE.

The Miracle expanded after my encounter and exchange with Derick. I met a man on a bench as I was waiting for the train and thinking about all that just happened with Derick. My blood was pumping really quickly and the pieces I had collected to add into the bridge painting had really excited my spirit and given me joy mixed with impatience, but I really tried to relax and soak in the suds of sound and smooth listening. This man on the bench, I shared with him some of my sketches and words about the art.

This man had just returned from jail for 2 and a half years. I showed him one of my artist statements, the one where I mention Daniel who is a man I had met about a month ago, who said he hasn't cried since he was 15, he is now 25, who said he was in a dark place in life, a lonely place, where he finds escape and love in his dreams, these dreams that do not come often.

When this man was reading about Daniel in the statement he said, "You know something, its funny, this man that I am reading about, this Daniel who is 25, well ... My name is Daniel and I am 25." Something was happening to him as he was reading it, he was shaking and shivering.

He gave me a vision to paint the prisons, to paint the people behind the bars, to visit them, the recreation yard where men play softball and lift weights and play basketball, the cells where the men read books and think about their wives or about their children or about the things that really matter. I gave him the sketch book and he drew what he saw. I believe a time will come where this vision is expanded and made actual.

I watched a film today, a film about New York and the artists there. It was made in the 90s. I saw an artist painting with a stick. He said he had no plan when he painted with the stick. He was very confused about his work and about himself.

Another artist flipped his canvases over and over, rotating them, so that he might see something new in each new position. One artist drew stereotypical cartoons on chalk-boards, and then would erase them violently, as a gesture towards erasing the stereotype.

One artist looked at the ground and saw beautiful objects in the muck of the sidewalks. She painted her own shoes. One artist worked with wood. She liked tools and how wood responds to tools. She liked primitive tools.

Almost all of them expressed the deep need for survival and the many long hours put into their work. It was said that the greatest artists are usually never discovered, and the artists just belown that level, whatever that is, wherever that is, are usually the ones given all the attention. One artist said an artist doesn't know what he is doing until he can talk about his art.

This artist life. Why do I do it? One artist in the movie said, "You are born an artist." She said, "It is a virtue to be an artist." I do it because I feel it is my nature. But it is something that I do not want to be selfish. I want it to confront the councils and cities and cobble-stone streets. But I am often discouraged and live in fear of living a poor life. I am ready to take it on.

An artist should leave open the portals within. Its like a clothes-line. Art is, I mean. You feel the weight of the clothes as you pull them in one by one, the artist feels the weight of the art as he pulls them out one by one, the visions suspended and pre-existent in an elevated space, to be reeled in, squeek-squeek. Or so this is something an artist should believe.

I was made aware of Jeff Koons today, in a film. The professor made him out to be the successor of Andy Warhol. The professor made him out to be the monster machine that all of us younger artists are up against, as if he drew the final line of standard when it comes to the art-making and art-production and art-performance process. Koons has assistants, specialists. These specialists mix colors all day and fill in his paintings for him, like paint-by-numbers. He has "management" that oversee the "specialists" who paint, to make sure they are not "doing their own thing", or "going off in their own trance, forgetting who they are working for, forgetting that they are Jeff Koons, the hands of Jeff Koons."

I was amazed, if that is the right word, I don't know. I was definetely feeling something. Maybe it was the fact that he hitch-hiked from Pittsburge to New York City to become what he has become today. I hear stories like this. Artists hitch-hiking. I think of Bob Dylan. For Jeff Koons to be in the position that he is in now, which is a position that functions like a machine, a new Andy Warhol's Factory, is something to look at and respect. This man conceives of concepts, day and night, referring to the old masters and bohemian modernists in his works. The history of art is crucial to his aesthetic and confidence. I did ask myself one question though. What would he create if there was no history of art? If there was no commercialism? Then I do ask myself, what would I create if there was no train station, or no musicians playing at night, or what if everybody decided to go cold-turkey when it came to cigarette smoking?

I think this is where the intuitive nature and being, spiritual vision and belief, come into the realm of our waking and subconcsious existence. You can tell I've been reading about Existentialism, it has been revealing as well as a scratch to my head.

Maybe if everything disappeared except the human race, maybe we would have many many self-portraits or many many void barren landscapes. Who knows? The fantasy would be born all over again.

Something is cooking at 27 Mix restaurant at 27 Halsey St.,in Newark. Feels like taste of spicy new ART there!

Paintings titled: "Derick in the tunnel", "Spare a Quarter?", "Guitar Man in the tunnel", "Captain Cycle" and "Rush Hour" represent selection of the paintings recently shown at solo exhibition "Trains, Stains and Hymns" in November at Kean University Gallery in Elizabeth, NJ where this highly involving, expressive and stirring art rocked the audience.

From the artist's statement of the author:

"Art allows me the expression to understand what it means to be human. I see the raging human. I see the relaxed human. I see the hungry human. I see the addicted human. When I see them I sometimes ask, "Will you glue something to this painting, will you give something?" Sometimes it is a snippet of clothing, a piece of welfare information, ticket stub, or one-dollar bill. I want people to be involved in this art, for the art to stimulate human exchange, for word and image to create a new ground in-between."

- Daniel James Brophy

The artist resides in Rahway NJ, 1234 Bryant St. and can be reached at home phone:
732 396 3364 or by email: dbrophy20@yahoo.com

Exhibition Place: Restaurant 27 MIX Newark NJ
Phone: 973 648 0643 http://www.27mix.com
Directions: http://www.27mix.com/directions.htm

I just returned from "27 MIX, Restaurant and Bar", 27 Halsey St. in Newark where the paintings hang from the brick waLL. Around the corner from the Restaurant is the "Red Saw Gallery", 585 Broad St., Newark, where I saw the opening of the "Surfaces" show. This was a painting show, small scale and large scale works. I hope to show in this gallery in the near future. The director wants to keep in touch so this can happen.

Photographs were taken and it was filmed with the camcorder.

This may seem exciting and good, but right now, what is exciting and on fire is the Bridge. Not only that, but the One-Night Bridge Exhibition that I believe can happen underneath the train station bridge in Elizabeth. Imagine that! I see a spot-light spinning in the summer night sky, letting everyone know what is happening, something is happening in that bridge over there. I see lights hanging from the Bridge, completely lighting up the space underneath so that everyone can see the paintings and each other and the garbage on the ground and the pigeons hiding away. I see hundreds of people coming, many invitations will be passed out for this main event in Elizabeth, NJ. I see stylish dressed women and men, young and old, walking underneath this murky bridge, women trying not to fall down in their high-heels. I see those coming just as they are, ripped sweaters and scruffy beards, dripping make-up and ripped stockings, all walKing underneath this bridgE. I see wine and cheese. I hear trains above me, the horns and the racket of the track. I see strangers dining with strangers. I see photographers and videographers documenting this event. I see the art hanging, large scale, detailed, energetic color, expressive line, miniscule bricks and stained glass windows. I sense the uncertainty one might experience when they first see the location. "What, its under a bridge, is it safe?" I hope the lights and noise will draw them in, draw them in to the art.

This vision that I have I believe is real. I know I must go through people in the city of Elizabeth to receive permission. I hope it is possible and well received as a cultural event for the city of Elizabeth.

ANNE TRUITT (1921-2004):

"Most people talking about art bore me to tears because they’re talking about something that I can see perfectly well exists, but it seems to me they’re talking about it from a very narrow point of view, as if it were an exercise or something you learned like a language, which of course it is. But that’s its least aspect. And they don’t talk about the experience that goes into it. You take a man like Piero della Francesca or you take Rembrandt or you take any great artist -- Picasso -- they wouldn’t be who they are if they weren’t human.

It’s the humanity. It’s the human experience that is distilled into art that makes it great.

You can be a good artist."

I am healthy and unhealthy. For the most part, as people say, I am well, meaning still alive and able to do what it is I do (make art), and of course do not do, or avoid doing, or delaying to do, such as organizing and arranging meetings concerning what it is that I happen to be doing in this life (again, making art).

I have pages of reading waiting for my eyes, these ancient writers wanting me, my brain, my time, my response. To be honest, I am so tired, restless, listening to Debussy, sitting in my studio as if underneath the very bridge that I paint, this leaking bridge of rain splats.

The bridge is beginning. IT is an arched bridge, a high bridge. It has been leaving me in a trance, leaving me with questions and wonders. I don't know when it will be finished, maybe in a month, who knows really? I know there is a lot of ground to cover. This fact is exciting.

Peace to you...

On Thursday an art director is coming with his truck to pick up paintings for a show I will be having in Newark. IT was spontaneous really. He called me and wanted me, wanted to offer me exposure. The show is not in a gallery, but in a popular resturant in downtown Newark, with brick walls. Can you imagine the Triptyche of AL hung with the brick in the background?

I have to hurry, email him some digital images, so he can choose which ones to hang. He said people might want to buy them, who knows what will happeN. All I know is that the art is being showN, and to peopLe who are in the ARt World, he said many people from this world go to this restaurant, and also anyone else who goes there. So I think it will be good for AL or the prophets or the street musicians to be known and shown.

I've beeN Scribbling with Markers as of late. I've been scribbling like pip. Someone said in the dvd movie I made, that art is, "the sweat of the artist, the time, the tears they cried", all of this participates in the spirit of the painting, that which deeply connects us to the human part(s) of ourselves. Maybe the spirit is that which penetrates space, face, time, and causes or brings about a rippling of renewal.

I say this because I deeply believe aRt can chaNge lives, chaNge the worLd, unify and celebrate diversity at the same time, and I believe the spirit of a painting has something to do with this. When I see the scribbling pages of pip, I see masterpieces, I see something that makes me want to cry and smile, I see Beauty in the scribble, in the washable marker stains.

The movie is what it is, it is what people have said.

IT is the sound of trains, the beeping of cabs, the silence of night. In certain frames nothing happens, in others, everything happens, in the words of those who thought they didn't know what to say about art, but then really were overcome by something in them, as if it was ripping out of them, not in a painful way, but in a way of healing and love, art became something for them in those late hours of the night, and maybe will always be something.

I ask myself when will the door paintings be done? If I was Basquiat, art dealers would have come to my studio by now and taken them (Basquiat often accused his dealers of taking unfinished paintings). But I know I am not Basquiat.

Basquiat is a mystery to me and maybe he always will be. I salivate over his neo-expressionist way of painting, as critics and historians have labeled it. But do I label it that? I don't label it anything. IT is his art. Basquiat's art. The genius of Basquiat. I missed his show last year in the Brooklyn Museum because I didn't have the money to travel, or maybe I did at points, but I just didn't go. I missed out on a beautiful thing.

When I think of Basquiat, I think of the speed and flow of him creating, of him slapping the doors and canvas with paint. I wish I could meet the 45 year old Basquiat, but I cannot. What is taking AL's life, has taken his life. The heroin, the "Horse", the underground slang term for it.

I would say I am constantly living in the present, if I am not painting, I feel as if something is not right, or if I am not reading about the history of art and about other artists now, something is replacing the beauty that I most identify with. But then I think, life is art, art is life, linger in the laziness of life and paint and create out of the void, out of the numb noise, the line is uncontrollable because your inner consciousness is out of control, but then there are moments of calm.

I must tell you something, I sometimes feel as if the Institution is slowing me down, or interfering. IT gets in the way of me painting because I have to do other required assignments. But I cannot drop out. I should finish. I just can't wait for the day when I will paint all the time. I appreciate learning in the institution, it is for art, it is for future opportunity.

I was reading about Anne Truitt, a minimalist sculptor/painter, she spoke of her art as lovers and babies. She said she preferred wood over steel, and that is was like having a perfectly eligible man right before her (steel), but just was not loveable. It was the wood she loved. The deterioration of the wood in the outdoors, subject to nature and time. I felt a closeness with her in word. I understood her.

Listen to what she has written:

"I notice that as I live from day to day, observing and feeling what goes on both inside and outside myself, certain aspects of what is happening adhere to me, as if magnetized by a center of psychic gravity.

I have learned to trust this center, to rely on its acuity and to go along with its choices although the center itself remains mysterious to me. I sometimes feel as if I recognize my own experience. It is a feeling akin to that of unexpectedly meeting a friend in a strange place, of being at once startled and satisfied -startled to find outside myself what feels native to me, satisfied to be so met. It is exhilarating."

Look up Ad Reinhardt's "12 Rules for a New Academy" (1953)

It seemed to be a complete negation of myself!

As I was reading about the relationships between Mathematics and Art the studio groaned like Tolkien's forest of trees.

The paintings move, they shift, press against each other. Sometimes it sounds like the snapping of a twig or the crack of bone, a sound I have learned, I have broken 10 bones in my life. I hear the cracking of things, like an egg on rim of bowl, they either are disturbances or reasons to listen, the primordial trying to crack through to you, the hidden holiness of things underneath fingernail or in dusty page of old book grandmother once gave to you as gift and the smells of another place existing still in your everyday place.

Sometimes I just scream out, I let out a noise beyond me, a shouting, a shrill, a sound of frustration penetrating my own soul. Then little child lays his head on your lap and the day becomes the yawning and tired body of that child, the frequent crying of that child, the snorting nose of that child, and then that little child lays down again, soon to be up and about again, hungry, coughing, craving, peeing on the seat, running to the call of nana.

I was reading that the human being when looking at a work of art craves both the emotional expression and the rational expression. I think that the artist is sometimes swamped in the feeling of the art itself, so wet and mucky that the art itself somehow explains itself, analyzes and unravels itself, rewinding and traversing through lines and lines of waiting minds, on the move and ready to water and plant in the soul of looker, which brings up the question, how long should we look at a work of art? If it is a strand of hair hung by a stand of dental floss from moldy ceiling, how long should we look at this?

We know not the artist, the artist is unaware of his/her exhibition, in a trance with their new work, or developing work, the assistants support the artists in this matter by carefully carrying art from studio to gallery. Some might say look until you yawn 10 times. Some might say look until the point where you do not blink. Some might say look until you "get it". I say look until you find your feet wandering to the next piece, eventually you will return, art is revolving, is cyclical, is the 21st century, is the beginning of time.

The brain itself is sacred ground. We call it mind. We call it memory. Somehow the soul and the Spirit and the heart are attachments of this mind. Maybe they are the inner layers and the outer tissues. Whatever it is, I wish I could see the colour of it ... maybe this is something I try to transform or translate into art, art as the image forever, unlike written language, it stays, it is not rewritten or reinterpreted, it just is.

In the Photo you see the development of the triptyche of AL. You have Art as layer, as structure, as construction, as surface, as intense dialogue with yourself and with God. Sometimes when you feel my paintings with your hands, it is as if they will cut you, sometimes the paint is sharp at the tips.