What is an artist statement if not in the breath of beauty? What is an Artist if not a medium for God’s beauty? What is Art if not a window to the first hour of eternity? What are we if not formation, transformation, the eternal minds eternal recreation?

My breath smells like poetry and coffee. Hand rolled cigarette burns line the inside of my fingers. I breathe in death, breathe out divine. Cyans, siennas, and coalescing cadmiums cover my body. Black and white naked photogenic souls dress the plaster walls. With estranged eyes and my evanescent mind I forgive my lack of familiarity in this phenomenal world. I know not how I have come to be. Though I am comfortable in the unknown. Feeling my way in the light leaving corners of my mind I see only in color. I reach contorting hands as leaf like fingers from the tree of life. Each branch a brush, a pen. I seek something to hold on to, something to keep, something to call my own. But something apart wants to be known, an estranged spirit, a will-o-the-wisp idea over unconscious waters. It drifts in an eternal northwest wind and wanders into the recesses of my makeshift mind. I am within and without and angels and seraphim dance about. It’s a ceremonial song. It’s a carefree no-space, no-time state of mind. Something apart wishes to breathe, to be imbued with life and I give it my own. It calls itself art. It always has and always will be. It is heaven sent and earth grown since antiquity. It finds life in me.

Bjorn Bengtsson


Immediately and always I am immersed in all-encompassing empty space. Void of form except for four white washed walls. With myself I am alone, and there is another coiled and curled in the corner. His body coalesced in magnificent colors – recreating his form, his figure, his internal expressions continuously. Everything about him flowed with the unforgiving beauty of nature. He was ever-changing, growing near nothing, yet always something – something wonderful.

With the wherewithal of water, his formless matter made serendipitous streams. Loose like light refracted and contracted over closed eyelids. Lifting weightless were bolstering blues brought down from skies or over from certain persons eyes, into his hands his heart, and in half a minute had touched over every part of him. Yesterday’s yellows yanked him from side to side, bending over the horizon of this landscape-like person. Receding reds, ever only a second seen before seeming to sink back inside again. Yes, he was full, overflowing with color from within. Every bone bending, every hue blending. Yes, he was always beautifully changing.

Yet, coiled and curled he was. Crept, crawled, crammed into that corner. I found him but he was always there – illuminating within. And in that moment I handed him my hand. He came out from that lost space and invaded the infinitude of possibility without. All his eyes touched trembled in anxious expectation. Awaiting their arrival in him. Everything was on the beautiful brink of becoming.

“In the wandering we find our way, not in the still sitting.”


“Love is the only endeavor.”


“Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost.”


“Man himself is mute and it is the image that speaks. For it is obvious that the image alone can keep pace with nature.”


“The artist is deeply persuaded by the Divine necessity for life.”