certainly true that a criterion for true art, as opposed to its cunning counterfeit, is its ability to take us where the artist has been, to this other different place where we are free from the problems of gravity. When we are drawn into the art we are drawn out of ourselves. We are no longer bound by matter, matter has become what it is: empty space and light.
Empty space and light. For us, empty space is space empty of people. The sea blue-black at night, stretched on a curve under the curve of the sky, blue-black and pinned with silver stars that never need polish. The Arctic, where the white snow is the white of nothing and defies the focus of the eye. Forests and rain forests and waterfalls that roar down the hollows of rocks. Deserts like a burning fire. Paintings show us how light affects us, for to live in light is to live in time and not be conscious of it, except in the most obvious ways. Paintings are light caught and held like a genie in a jar. The energy is trapped for ever, concentrated, unable to disperse.
Still life is dancing life. The dancing life of light.
PAINTINGS I: 'A Hunt in a Forest'. A forest at night. Men in coloured tunics are riding fierce horses. Dogs bark. Disappearing distance into distance into distance the riders get smaller and vanish. Uccello. The coming of perspective.
When I saw this painting I began by concentrating on the foreground figures, and only by degrees did I notice the others, some so faint as to be hardly noticeable.
My own life is like this, or, I should say, my own lives. For the most part I can see only the most obvious detail, the present, my present. But sometimes, by a trick of the light, I can see more than that. I can see countless lives existing together and receding slowly into the trees.
TIME 4: Did my childhood happen? I must believe it did, but I don't have any proof. My mother says it did, but she is a fantasist, a liar and a murderer, though none of that would stop me loving her. I remember things, but I too am a fantasist and a liar, though I have not killed anyone yet.
There are others whom I could ask, but I would not count their word in a court of law. Can I count it in a more serious matter? I will have to assume that I had a childhood, but I cannot assume to have had the one I remember.
Everyone remembers things which never happened. And it is common knowledge that people often forget things which did. Either we are all fantasists and liars or the past has nothing definite in it. I have heard people say we are shaped by our childhood. But which one?
I was walking around the island today when I found a deep pit full of worn-out ballet shoes. The satin was stained and the toes were scuffed through in holes. I followed the track which led from the pit up a short hill and along a ridge thick with blue stone. I soon came to a handsome house, quite out of keeping with the wild surroundings. I pulled on the doorbell but no one answered. Determined now to seek an end to my mystery, I climbed up the side of the house and managed to get in through a double window on the top floor. Inside, the rooms were wooden-floored and without furnishings, though each had a large fireplace and in each fireplace a cast of embers or a furious blaze warmed the room.
After some time I heard a sound like music, but not like any music I had heard, and I tracked the noise to a pair of doors which seemed to be bolted. Above the door was a glass pane, and by careful scrambling I was able to balance on the door knobs and peer into the room.
What I saw astonished me.
There appeared to be ten points of light spiralling in a line along the floor, and from these beings came the sound I had heard. It was harmonic but it had no tune. I could hardly bear to look at the light, and the tone, though far from unpleasant, hurt my ears. It was too rich, too strong, to be music.
Then I saw a young woman, darting in a figure of eight in between the lights and turning her hands through it as
Empty space and light. For us, empty space is space empty of people. The sea blue-black at night, stretched on a curve under the curve of the sky, blue-black and pinned with silver stars that never need polish. The Arctic, where the white snow is the white of nothing and defies the focus of the eye. Forests and rain forests and waterfalls that roar down the hollows of rocks. Deserts like a burning fire. Paintings show us how light affects us, for to live in light is to live in time and not be conscious of it, except in the most obvious ways. Paintings are light caught and held like a genie in a jar. The energy is trapped for ever, concentrated, unable to disperse.
Still life is dancing life. The dancing life of light.
PAINTINGS I: 'A Hunt in a Forest'. A forest at night. Men in coloured tunics are riding fierce horses. Dogs bark. Disappearing distance into distance into distance the riders get smaller and vanish. Uccello. The coming of perspective.
When I saw this painting I began by concentrating on the foreground figures, and only by degrees did I notice the others, some so faint as to be hardly noticeable.
My own life is like this, or, I should say, my own lives. For the most part I can see only the most obvious detail, the present, my present. But sometimes, by a trick of the light, I can see more than that. I can see countless lives existing together and receding slowly into the trees.
TIME 4: Did my childhood happen? I must believe it did, but I don't have any proof. My mother says it did, but she is a fantasist, a liar and a murderer, though none of that would stop me loving her. I remember things, but I too am a fantasist and a liar, though I have not killed anyone yet.
There are others whom I could ask, but I would not count their word in a court of law. Can I count it in a more serious matter? I will have to assume that I had a childhood, but I cannot assume to have had the one I remember.
Everyone remembers things which never happened. And it is common knowledge that people often forget things which did. Either we are all fantasists and liars or the past has nothing definite in it. I have heard people say we are shaped by our childhood. But which one?
I was walking around the island today when I found a deep pit full of worn-out ballet shoes. The satin was stained and the toes were scuffed through in holes. I followed the track which led from the pit up a short hill and along a ridge thick with blue stone. I soon came to a handsome house, quite out of keeping with the wild surroundings. I pulled on the doorbell but no one answered. Determined now to seek an end to my mystery, I climbed up the side of the house and managed to get in through a double window on the top floor. Inside, the rooms were wooden-floored and without furnishings, though each had a large fireplace and in each fireplace a cast of embers or a furious blaze warmed the room.
After some time I heard a sound like music, but not like any music I had heard, and I tracked the noise to a pair of doors which seemed to be bolted. Above the door was a glass pane, and by careful scrambling I was able to balance on the door knobs and peer into the room.
What I saw astonished me.
There appeared to be ten points of light spiralling in a line along the floor, and from these beings came the sound I had heard. It was harmonic but it had no tune. I could hardly bear to look at the light, and the tone, though far from unpleasant, hurt my ears. It was too rich, too strong, to be music.
Then I saw a young woman, darting in a figure of eight in between the lights and turning her hands through it as
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