Notes in Painting of Coalescence
If this were a philosophical exposit, which it precisely is not; but if it were, premise 1 (our basic universal sense) would be: color is synonymous with emotion.
Color must be not only representational of emotion, but maintain the supernatural ability to necessitate certain emotive responses within the soul of the active seer.
Color therefore is a means to as well as a capturer of emotion.
In this way color enlivens and sustains a symbiotic creation of life both in the canvas and within the active seer.
The seer and the seen are one in the same. The painting sees you as you see it.
Color Theory Sub
In light of the emotive symbioticism of the colored canvas and the active seer, the color may bring about heightened or subdued emotive responses. The seer who cannot escape his being and emotional ties therein will enter a reciprotic soul staring contest with the color canvas. The canvas then serves to embody these prior emotive states in the act of subduing or heightening emotion into a new emotive state coalescing the two to one.
There also may be observed an exacting of an emotive state. In this case the canvas is an exact external manifestation of an unknown held internal state within the active seer.
Now there are three outlined emotive interactions that may take place between the canvas and the active seer.
1) Heightening
2) Subduing
3) Exacting
Of these three interactions, a further developing and providing of aesthetic evidence is necessary. This I will leave to the active seer to ascertain by their own artistic accord.
There is a great love coasting through the fleshy bluish-beige and pinkish red veins of the artist. Trace their course inside and back from the masterwork of blessing and find the interconnected heart. The ever recurring eyes revealing all phenomenally seen in sanguine perception. Still the artist speaks serendipitous, bleeds like every outward river of the oceanic over-soul. This openness, this soft kiss of solitude; the artist holds close love in all things.
The painter bathes in the beauty of being, the ever-renewal of Spirit. Each encounter with oil is as the first. Every stroke is new, foregoing of the purity in unknowing. The direction is stillness, seeing to it all will be done as willed by the Spirit. There is never hurry, never idleness, only the sure song of the wind to carry.
There is great communion in the spaces between solitude. Meager dining halls where artists meet and feast upon love. A lifting up of breath. A renewal. I visited there with a midnight haired river women. Under the loom of her lips were woven words of wonder. Here I drowned in her inner color, her invisible coalescence. Here I am, in the well water of the ways of her flow. The spirited winds sing, serenade the leaf dance, open the oeuvre of oil. A whisper in the wind, it weaves words and leaves love unbridled. She is heavenly you see. She opened all of me. Sent for a solitude kiss and revelation of stillness. In the quiet, the creak of the tree, the leaf falling freely, the wind whispered –paint what you see. See God in me.
A voice spoke to me amongst the spiralous thunder of insanity and said simply,
‘You must make love your only endeavor’
As I begin to paint the landscape – The stretch of eyes always upon my own – I must enter in wholly, find myself utterly lost in the landscape, only then finding sense of space in oil.
I pray that I may touch upon the lands in which words fail to reach. That by the Spirit in me, the art expresses the inexpressible. Every hour in oil and ink is an eternity walk in the garden with God. On my return to soil – see before my hands is a stained glass window. It holds your gaze over the face of the deep. In it you are whole. This is Gold filling, Spirit incanting.
All created peoples, meaning all beings are natured under one of two purposes – to create or to support those that create. In this is worship. We are active symbols of our Creator in these two acts. Here is fulfilment.
Every peanut butter and jelly toasted sandwich brings me back to the first night of oil painting.
In entering into the landscape I have now found, the landscape has truly entered into me.
I think it better to dispel the vile by the beautiful through recompense to the horror which enumerates healing and joy is necessary in times.
Red and green, orange and blue, purple and yellow. With these, color elicits a contraposition not only in the visual play of form and shape, but also within the arrive seer. There is not mutual exclusivity, nor a duality, only a separation. In this separation is where the artist begins a story.
In speaking of God my words fall like shadows in the night, like light over light. It is all already there – what more can I add?
The secret in actively seeing art, if there were one, is this:
I must feel what I feel, not knowing what I feel.
Man in the ever progression of love leaves behind many selves to dust. He watches his skin peel back for glory beneath, the love of losing self. Yet still seeing eternity nearing, man finds a member desperately clinging. Here he must lose himself entirely, holding only humility in the presence of God always. Even his name is no longer, it is an illusion, a weak reflection. Purity calls for the perfection of love, that man loves himself by the grace of God to lose himself fully. Only then may the Spirit fill this being to the brim.
The artist is a recreator. The artist is deeply persuaded by the divine necessity for life.
It is a no sleep painting to keep for eternity kind of night.
(moonrise 10/7-8/’19) (Bjorn)
To paint what is true to nature. The artist himself must be natural. Each stroke must be an unbridled breaking forth of beauty, riddled in serendipity.
Why must I limit myself to waves? What I wish is to drown
The grandeur of the mountain makes itself manifest in the bodies which see to enter it. The mountain gives graciously the stillness of solitude. Even eyes upon the vastness sends my perception spinning, simultaneously sinking and soaring in the depths of this place.
What I ask is not that the painting makes sense to the actual world, but to itself. For it is quite true that the painting is a world in its own.
The painting must be alive. That is all. The painting then proclaims the handiwork of God, the painting has emotive power, the painting gives rise to thought. Then the painting is good.
All now is an endeavor for love.
The spirit pulled the door shut and had me paint in Its presence.
Together we’ve painted. The spirit blew the door open and asked me to meet It outside. Under the tree. It asked if I, now having seen it at work, would endeavor to continue so long as it fills me with breath.
I said so long as there is glory for the Lord. It said yes, for love shall abound in the painting work, though so shall anguish. I said I will take on both. It said life must endure, there no death by my own hand to be had. I agreed. Love shall reach its hand through the paintings.
It asked me to come closer, head and hands on the tree. I was washed in all It had seen. Let love abound. It said I was ready. For painting shall begin. Always present by Spirit. Let YAHWEH flow.
All of nature seemed to sing and dance at once, all putting on a show that they may be painted. It was really quite overwhelming.
On future reflection I now see it was only the wind. Coursing life through all. Even me.
I am consistently making accidents in my painting. The genius comes in the grace, the acceptance.
Sanctification.
I am at once face to face with my reality in unbridlement while still steeped deep in dreamscape.
At times I am as a snail and the art is my shell, my traverse home.
So long as the wind breathes through the leaves of the trees I am comforted. I am kept in the presence of the Spirit. I am in Holy Company.