Seduction

We are easily seduced by other cultures. Especially when another culture appears to offer a form of salvation from ourselves. In the West we have looked to the East for rituals and philosophies long disused in Western culture in turn the East have come to acquire the living standards of the West as a testimony of a better way of being. I think we are both fooled and through this illusion that the answers come from the horizon we slowly self destruct.

China Through a Lense in 2007

On Inner Spaces

Space and place are not only those locations we find ourselves walking through or standing in; going towards or being invite to, but they also constitute the spaces we go to emotionally and psychologically.
Spaces, like places, are not limited to the interiors of galleries or corporate firms, nor are they just open areas where the public meet or a sculpture sits. They neither have to be the wilderness or the urban street.

A space is a place you can go to to meet yourself...‘the center is everywhere and its circumference nowhere’. We are a place in ourselves. Our perceptions contributes, alters and has the power to transform how we perceive external space.
'What ever is true of space and time, this much is true for place: we are immersed in it and could not do without it.' Edward Casey

Space is not empty as emptiness would assume that no thing can exist, but if it exists then isn't it something?
Even the idea of death is then nothing more than a transformation of spaces.
Perhaps...

I walk into this space with my heart opened aware of its vulnerability.

This space can be a haven of comfort, like an old friend who knows you well and invites you to sit a while, eyes closed. It nudges you towards your breath, a meeting of the rise and fall of your stomach. The indicator that you are living. And like a reunion long overdue you find yourself slowly taken into this prana that seems to shut out the world and sends butterflies flying through your skin.. Here a while I will be.

Undercurrents

There is something foreboding about power lines.
They are at once drawings in the sky as if a giant hand took to illustrating in space. And at the same time they speak of currents we can see, if we look up, yet some may not feel or contemplate. They are the undercurrents overhead. We can hear their hum if standing close enough to a power station, or even their static sparks can be heard from an inner city backyard, but how much notice do we give them?


Within the home we use these currents constantly in our modernity. Their power lines make a spiral within each of our homes. We stand upon grids of electrical wiring. The city is built on spiral grids. We are connected you and I.

This photo was taken at an intersection in Shanghai where the sky was cut by wires starting from each of the 4 corners. It was an honest portrayal of the intensity of the currents that surround us. It's hum danced over my head and down my spine....The little red flags that hang from the wires translate DANGER.

The clouds, the clouds....

I have often wondered when in a plane traveling at such astronomical speeds, if my body, being made not to fly, should be up there at all.But then I see the clouds and they are the most amazing things that I forget just how crap my body feels...
I imagine myself diving into their white fluffy body and curling up to dream up some stars...




I recently returned from a 3 week trip in China. it had been 5 years since being above the clouds in an airplane. It felt like the first time. I could both see and feel the curve of the world whilst up there closer to the stars. A body in space colliding only with the clouds.Clouds which seemed only there for my imagination in their complex manipulation into shapes recognised by my mind.

The sky has a way of beckoning our dreams towards the clouds. The clouds in their infinite forms speak to me of the shapes of my desires and my fears. The tension of my dark boding; the fear of death, the potential fall and the sweet rest..

On filling the pages of books..

When I close my eyes i am carried to a corridor of infinite shelves of books. These books are bound with incandescent tungsten filaments, their contents a thousand pearly blank pages awaiting completion.
And here my life; my thoughts, what I see through these eyes and the eye that sees when they are closed, my every feeling and experience are written with the delicate thread of the sillk worm.On reading them only those that can fly will be able to take a glimpse of the silky thread that will not be still long enough for any word to form and yet here an image will dance up.
Unrehearsed, impulsive, showing a certain amount of extemporaneousness will come the scribing of these pages.

On other writings one may find the edited swirls of my thoughts, but only because I fear that I at times must research, explore, contemplate and dive into the river of literary flows.