from Clouds, leaves, waves.
Crispin wandering off
abstractly, --singing
a different song,
centuries flashing before us
dying, the arm of the sublime
coming down, from high noon.
The fall comedian,
hails the winter in the city.
Haunting memories of
Pompeii, in the sun,
(a certain quality of a special red
pigment fading)
reminds
our loss of the sacred.
Spirit, a quality-- felt--
unmeasured,
underneath, abstracting,
flaking paint, a grey grid
restored, then disintegrating--
fragmented broken pieces.
The hardened crystal, signaling
a Supreme Fiction!
drifting, beyond reach or grasp.
things as they are
Large paintings were becoming problematic. Seen as the eighties commercial machine. These were the first smaller paintings I made as a years work.
It was hard not to feel my ambition was waning . So I hung them as walls. They looked great all together! They gave another dimension to my symbolic narrative or cycle.
Mythos I found had a root in the Greek that means seasonal.
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