The only thing that makes sense
I look out my window. I’m eight.
I see a suburban street
filled with Buicks, Plymouths, Fords and Chevys
The flamboyant 50s era automotive design styling entrances me
Fins, chrome flares, bullet bumpers,
vibrant color combinations, bursting with exuberance.
I’m exploring and familiarizing myself with
the visual language of the sheet metal
drawing similar forms and shapes using colored pencils
on white typewriter paper.
I mount them with Scotch tape in a grid on a wall in my room.
I wonder if I’m psychically or by disposition connected to a pre-historic cave child who felt compelled to record what he had just experienced
after a herd of bison stampeded by the mouth of his primitive dwelling.
I look out my window. I’m 18.
I see freak flags flying. I smell smoke.
I smoke something smelly.
I see ghettos burning.
And draft cards. And bras.
I see the loss and birth of hope.
An immigrant class learning to cope.
I see my city on the ropes
grass growing between the cracks in the cement.
I see hope and destruction totally bent.
Beauty as a notion that came and went.
It’s back again. Is comprehension an ocean?
Is it a wave? Or a particle in motion?
I’m questioning the propensity of creative expression.
Where does it begin and end?
I look out my window. I’m 21.
If art is any thing. Is every thing art?
To what end this outpouring of creative juice?
I sense the need to reframe
resign from design
I tell myself. Listen.
I look out my window. I’m 24.
I see quickly disappearing white lines
and an ever narrowing road as our ton of rusty junk
speeds towards an imminently unattainable horizon.
I see the universe splayed open wide
as I gaze into a crisp wintery sky.
Suddenly I hear
Hey buddy, don’t block up the Milky Way.
I look out my window. I’m 28.
I see baby Ben. Oh this is going to be fun.
I see a farm and a dog. And a hedgehog or some unidentifiable animal dragged to the door.
A lot of apple trees.
And a farm house, a creek with water cress and mint.
I hear a buzz as I’m walking through a field.
I look down and focus my eye on a bee
and now two and three and more
and I bend my knees slowly lowering myself,
lower and lower till I’m stooping at eye level
of what I now see is a field of buzzing bees
evenly spaced at intersections of a previously invisible grid.
It’s louder now. I’m on their frequency.
It’s a concert of a million bees breathing.
They’re selectively collecting only the blossoming clover nectar today.
Sweet observation and surrender.
I look out my window. I’m 38.
I’m sitting in seat A14 and I see the mountains below.
I imagine how the plane would drop
if the engines were to suddenly stop.
I suppose everyone has had that thought.
The pressure would be too much to bear as I and the other passengers quickly descended through the air.
My eyeballs would pop out.
And my head, probably my whole body, would explode.
Or, I don’t know, maybe implode?
It would be a mess. But I couldn’t see it.
It would be a tragedy to fall from the sky.
Still the question remains, what is art?
Something that makes you think?
I look out my window. I’m 48.
There’s something out there, I’m convinced.
The kids and living and graphic design are my life.
I wish it was in that order. I’m not convinced.
I’m convinced my circumstance is more fortunate than most.
I have so much without having so much.
Home births. Love abounding beyond comprehension.
A working situation that is more like a vacation
It’s Saturday. Chore day.
Adolescent Ben is looking out the window.
He sees his friends jumping on the trampoline in the backyard.
He grunts loudly with displeasure
and wildly thrashes the broom from side to side,
likely spreading more dirt than removing it,
in the kitchen of the Hotel Universe.
He rather be with his friends now and not five minutes from now.
Ben, you know, everything is an art.
Even sweeping the floor is an art. Bingo. An artist’s statement.
I look out my window. I’m 60.
It’s dark. I can barely see the past.
Oh, there it is, behind me.
How long have you been there I throw my voice into the night?
No answer.
The void is annoying
as is a past that can’t be undone.
After a long sabbatical I’m returning to my artistic roots
To draw and be drawn to create.
For the thrill of eliciting matter that didn’t exist.
To channel artistic energy flowing through me like a waterfall.
For the love of blind ambition.
To be blinded by creation.
What has always been my problem
is too many contrary thoughts
and no pretense of organization.
Absurdity is the only thing that makes sense.
I look out my window. I’m eight.
I see a suburban street
filled with Buicks, Plymouths, Fords and Chevys
The flamboyant 50s era automotive design styling entrances me
Fins, chrome flares, bullet bumpers,
vibrant color combinations, bursting with exuberance.
I’m exploring and familiarizing myself with
the visual language of the sheet metal
drawing similar forms and shapes using colored pencils
on white typewriter paper.
I mount them with Scotch tape in a grid on a wall in my room.
I wonder if I’m psychically or by disposition connected to a pre-historic cave child who felt compelled to record what he had just experienced
after a herd of bison stampeded by the mouth of his primitive dwelling.
I look out my window. I’m 18.
I see freak flags flying. I smell smoke.
I smoke something smelly.
I see ghettos burning.
And draft cards. And bras.
I see the loss and birth of hope.
An immigrant class learning to cope.
I see my city on the ropes
grass growing between the cracks in the cement.
I see hope and destruction totally bent.
Beauty as a notion that came and went.
It’s back again. Is comprehension an ocean?
Is it a wave? Or a particle in motion?
I’m questioning the propensity of creative expression.
Where does it begin and end?
I look out my window. I’m 21.
If art is any thing. Is every thing art?
To what end this outpouring of creative juice?
I sense the need to reframe
resign from design
I tell myself. Listen.
I look out my window. I’m 24.
I see quickly disappearing white lines
and an ever narrowing road as our ton of rusty junk
speeds towards an imminently unattainable horizon.
I see the universe splayed open wide
as I gaze into a crisp wintery sky.
Suddenly I hear
Hey buddy, don’t block up the Milky Way.
I look out my window. I’m 28.
I see baby Ben. Oh this is going to be fun.
I see a farm and a dog. And a hedgehog or some unidentifiable animal dragged to the door.
A lot of apple trees.
And a farm house, a creek with water cress and mint.
I hear a buzz as I’m walking through a field.
I look down and focus my eye on a bee
and now two and three and more
and I bend my knees slowly lowering myself,
lower and lower till I’m stooping at eye level
of what I now see is a field of buzzing bees
evenly spaced at intersections of a previously invisible grid.
It’s louder now. I’m on their frequency.
It’s a concert of a million bees breathing.
They’re selectively collecting only the blossoming clover nectar today.
Sweet observation and surrender.
I look out my window. I’m 38.
I’m sitting in seat A14 and I see the mountains below.
I imagine how the plane would drop
if the engines were to suddenly stop.
I suppose everyone has had that thought.
The pressure would be too much to bear as I and the other passengers quickly descended through the air.
My eyeballs would pop out.
And my head, probably my whole body, would explode.
Or, I don’t know, maybe implode?
It would be a mess. But I couldn’t see it.
It would be a tragedy to fall from the sky.
Still the question remains, what is art?
Something that makes you think?
I look out my window. I’m 48.
There’s something out there, I’m convinced.
The kids and living and graphic design are my life.
I wish it was in that order. I’m not convinced.
I’m convinced my circumstance is more fortunate than most.
I have so much without having so much.
Home births. Love abounding beyond comprehension.
A working situation that is more like a vacation
It’s Saturday. Chore day.
Adolescent Ben is looking out the window.
He sees his friends jumping on the trampoline in the backyard.
He grunts loudly with displeasure
and wildly thrashes the broom from side to side,
likely spreading more dirt than removing it,
in the kitchen of the Hotel Universe.
He rather be with his friends now and not five minutes from now.
Ben, you know, everything is an art.
Even sweeping the floor is an art. Bingo. An artist’s statement.
I look out my window. I’m 60.
It’s dark. I can barely see the past.
Oh, there it is, behind me.
How long have you been there I throw my voice into the night?
No answer.
The void is annoying
as is a past that can’t be undone.
After a long sabbatical I’m returning to my artistic roots
To draw and be drawn to create.
For the thrill of eliciting matter that didn’t exist.
To channel artistic energy flowing through me like a waterfall.
For the love of blind ambition.
To be blinded by creation.
What has always been my problem
is too many contrary thoughts
and no pretense of organization.
Absurdity is the only thing that makes sense.