the perfect O

26/03/2018

 

As a calligrapher, the two shapes to master are the straight line and the circle.

My affinity is with the circle.

So elegant. So whole.

So difficult to achieve.

Sheets of “o”s created with pointed pen, angled nibs, fat and thin brushes, fill empty spaces. Sheets upon sheets. With each new white, clean space hope is revived. During my twenty years as a calligrapher-artist, I have never mastered the circle. Yet, I have never lost my love and appreciation for this shape.

I have never lost hope.

Hope for wholeness.

Hope for an elegant world.

Hope that I may contribute to this by a mere stroke of the pen or brush.


Included are some studies of Os. Just the beginning. Always, the beginning.

Circle15

Circle25

 

 

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DNA

11/03/2018

Melancholy takes a bad rap. It is in my DNA. I would not extract, eject, or expel what runs through my veins for any reason.

Not.

Any.

Reason.

Melancholy fuels the creative urge. This dark, black side provides dark, black comic relief which only the few can abide. “Edward Goreys” of the world know this to be a truth. For yes, Wednesday’s child IS filled with woe; she is also filled with an astute sensibility for its mate.

Joy.

Yes, I am telling you joy is the underbelly of this pensive state. This is true. When it rises, perhaps rarely and quietly, through being- gazing at dust motes through sunlight – joy percolates, spilling out into the world.

You ask for truth.

It is this.

brushd.jpg

The world needs melancholy more than joy.

Born on a Wednesday, I know this.


Calligraphy was rendered during my last year at St. Albans School with my wonderful Form I and Form II boys in our “Arts Club.”

Bedroom door

19/08/2017

 

Door2This family. Open and close. My round, brass knob has lost its shine from all the hands – large and small – that have grasped me sometimes gently, others with uninhibited force. Children with the dirt of outdoor play or squeakily fresh from the evening baths – all I have felt as they have worn away at my golden brilliance. And those hands of teenage boys. Their fresh scents of testosterone and pheromones. They too have embraced me with their adolescent passion for sports and burgeoning loves.

But it is the woman’s hands. She, my only gentle touch. Clearing away my gauzy curtain, she lovingly washes me clean with care and deliberate pause at each of my fifteen panes. Ah, you see, I am French. I recognize love. It is she who loves to throw me open wide. This is her invitation to the family; she is at the ready for her family, even within the sanctity of this bedroom. She is the balance to the man’s hands. He, always closing me to keep his private counsel whether in muted conversations, in love with this woman, or alone with his dreams and fears.

Yet, I am no sentimental fool. My gift to you, you who reside within my boundary is this – I bear witness. Rarely has my soft pine frame been slammed in anger, yet I have seen pain, fevers, and heartache come and go across my threshold. I, the sentinel, have witnessed all and have kept my silence. I have done what is required with a steadfast heart.

The summer breezes brush against my frame. I sigh with a bittersweet and slight sway. I have seen and felt children growing into young men, and a young couple into an old one.


 

The Small lie

11/07/2017

Grey2

a study in greys with gouache – TH

The vaulted ceiling is heavy with plaster and ornamentation. Chandeliers of weathered brass and milk-glass are unsettling to eyes raised upward; covert glances look for angels. My slight, seven-year old frame carries the full length of the mandatory, green, wool uniform, dense with the weight of uncharted heavenly canopies. Feet tread lightly against the cold tile floors to muffle echoes. Afraid to disturb the gods. Reverence is assumed, but it is reluctance.

The dark walnut doorway is designed to meld into the walls lined with bas-relief stages of the Crucifixion. Suffering and sacrifice. I accept this story, but, it is the art that arouses my curiosity. Already, I am firm in my own world view. Sin, the black mark on the milk bottle of countless catechism does not enter the ideology of the young. It has no place. Not here.

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