The dichotomy of knowledge; to think we know is to not know anything, yet in our surrender to the unknown we begin to see, and so it repeats. The black contends with the white. It’s into the darkness one must go to return and go back again.
A battle of attrition from which cold stones spark heat and bear fruit. “A hero’s journey” said the Ego... “The life of a worm” spoke another. Perhaps, I see more commonality with man and worm than of hero. One seems closer to death than the fallacy of it, as they mine the dark in centimetres. Still, the worm in all his pink fleshy vulnerability, believes himself heroic. His hubris and conceit divide him, lost in the empty exposure of his light, he forgets, or never knows what richness there is in the whole of life, what is gained when suffering through the murk.
Blind we stumble and float through hards and sharps, and our fruit born of thorn in the dark, I find is bitter with truth. The fragility of man, of myself, choosing to not depict that which is outside my own experience. In paint and the conflict-ridden subservient process of making, I crack shards for facing honest reflection and polish broken edges to suggest ideas of a necessary pain.
