What is art? Here’s a poem about art.
Most of the people I typed for at last year’s Artisanal LA event have blurred together in memory. Even still, there is one fellow I have no intention of ever forgetting. He came over with a friend. She wandered off to take pictures as he and I began to talk. At first, we did the basic Typewriter Poetry dance. He asked about the project, I answered with my usual bases covered. Soon, something shifted. He sat down on the floor. I halted my work on another person’s poem. We dove into our hitchhiking and traveling stories; afterward, he shared his love of robotics and electronics with me.
The third piece in the “Quantum Poetica” painting series took a life of its own. The typewritten pieces–the poem, the bits of a poem–fit together in a more tangible way than the other two paintings. It is a bit like wrestling, patterning glue with typewritten paper onto acrylic and canvas. Will the typewritten bits peel off? The text fade? I don’t know. I hope it stays.
This second piece in the “Quantum Poetica” painting series turned out relatively similar to what I originally envisioned. The title and the meditative spiral made of textured stitches of paint make perfect sense to me. I’m interested in trying this method again with different patterns, different shapes. The black on black, the careful blobs of paint, the sound as the words take shape in your mouth like a mantra singing you home: i do do i i do do i i do do i i do do i–
Earlier this month, I was inspired to paint a new series called “Quantum Poetica.” One of my favorite things about creating Typewriter Poetry based paintings is the ability to play with spacing between words. In this way, the simple–the quantum–becomes divine. As much as I love traditional poetry, I love the intuitive flow of abstract painting and concrete poetics. The balance of space and color and weight feels like a much freer exchange. Almost as though the vision for the painting, manifesting in wondrous flux, remains forever light.
A creative himself, Ray & I talked about art and painting and music and writing, and all the strings that flow between those mediums, the incredible potential for boundless conversation. Rereading this poem reminds me of the lessons I am currently learning and re-learning while care-taking for my dad: we give it all back, eventually. Why not celebrate for having it in the first place?
Some performances were long. We raged past the show and burrowed furiously into the night. Other performances were lonely and quiet, intimate, with soft conversation and relaxed acceptance of letting the flow be. On the last night, our voices rose and fell in play with one another, harmonizing at their own accord to the perfect pitches, intervals, frequencies.