I am starting my maternity leave today, so I won’t be online in a working capacity for several months. I will check in occasionally with my emails, and I have scheduled some posts to go out during this time. I look forward to seeing you all when I get back, Luitha
One, like white gold
Icy, still and cold
Two, a budding rose
Taste of raspberries
Three, smell of cut grass
Early spring rain
Four, dark chocolate
Deep rooted oak
Five like a dandelion
Late summer heat
Six silvery and sleek
Light on the water
Seven blackberries on the tongue
Night branched by lightning
Words must be sweet,
The paint bright.
No hidden shadow falling
Across the moment,
Without mar, without movement,
A photograph of a pose
Presented as a product.
A smile at a screen
Before we turn to empty rooms.
We are art,
Art beyond the frame,
Enter the space
To the wounded root;
Deep black shards, she showed me,
And deep black oozing shame –
Around a betrayal, I protect
The still baby, born cold,
The song of bodies long
Buried in the snow.
I see I am to join them
Curled beneath the roots & thorns,
To sleep once more.
Your voices echo down my bones
Your bones root up through my heels
Your wings pull shining from my spine
Body never ends;
Undulating landscape, breast and mountains,
Voice and cobweb,
Song to silent stars behind eyelids,
Moving constellations of kin metals
Never so far that I don’t feel you.
Faces that paint each other,
Sharing eyes, the space beneath a cave,
Filled with crystal songs from our tiniest parts,
The spinning orbits of thoughts and lightening
And moons and atoms,
This echo of time that ripples underfoot.
A heartbeat surge of tenderness
Between the moors and my beloved,
You are all here;
I cannot find the edges anymore.
Every time we create, we commit an act of defiance. A movement towards freedom; the purposeful choosing of our own reality, in place of one presented to us.
Our modern cultures insidiously discourage art, because consumption is more important than creation to the economic machines we’ve built.
When we sit down to paint or write or sing, when we put on our dance shoes, when we pick up our sewing kit or chisel or clay, we are sidestepping the pressure to fill that void with more stuff, or more food, or more TV. We are instead stepping into the void with the intention of birthing something from it. We are allowing the emptiness inside us to express something new.
Art is an act of radical defiance; not of conflict, not of aggression, but of assertive reality building. We say with our brushes and pens and bodies that we are, in fact, alive and paying attention. We have voices. We are not asleep. We are open and communicating and participating in the world.
We are not voids to be filled, but spaces to dance within.