Paintings have been going out and coming back into my studio from multiple exhibits. It’s been a fun exercise to marry then up in groupings on my studio walls given that they were largely not made or shown together.
With my inventory piling up and an exhibit schedule slowing down, I’m spending more time reading, contemplating and conceptualizing–and experimenting. A studio visitor found me sitting on the floor smearing paint around with my fingers yesterday. This poem I happened upon by Walt Whitman is sure to influence my thoughts about my work for a while moving forward–the soul/ personality, the quiet voice/energy, inside/outside, not as dualities but co-existing and providing a wholeness —here are the first 5 stanzas.Song of Myself
I celebrate myself; And what I assume you shall assume; For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my Soul; I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes; I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it; The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of the distillation—it is odorless; It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it; I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked; I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath; Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine; My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs; The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn; The sound of the belch’d words of my voice, words loos’d to the eddies of the wind; A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms; The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag; The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides; The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems; You shall possess the good of the earth and sun—(there are millions of suns left;) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books; You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me: You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end; But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now; And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge, and urge, and urge; Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance—always substance and increase, always sex; Always a knit of identity—alw