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Here are some very metaphysical thoughts
I have about
The Personal Idiom in Art
The artist meanders through exotic fancies and
fantasies. There is an intriguing, perhaps dazzling
display of the subconscious mind. And, as the energized
human struggles to make revealing, honest sense of
this inner life - of all life - to give it form and expression,
a true image of "soul" emerges. A signature personality
shows - one uncorrupted by ego, hubris or rationalization. Finally is revealed, through the vast body of a
lifetime of work, from within a lifelong quest through
the private landscape, a clear picture of self.
Thus, the personal idiom is a phantom of rare honesty;
for, in the artist's effects we glimpse facets of thought,
obsessions and involvements otherwise rarely exposed.
The works offer a very special view of a deep, pure self.
So, it seems seems to me that this, a human's impassioned,
inspired expression of personality, is the essence of art.
I like to think this evoked structure of inner spirit takes form
as personal image - personal idiom. That it hides like a pool
shimmering from within potent experience. Then, as the artist
creates, the work is witnessed by others. It flickers. And we
witness in the idiomatic signature wonderous, expressive
events - sometimes even significant, cultural achievement
(although perhaps that view of the "soul" typically remains
hidden from its creator, suffused in life. In fact,doesn't it
come into full focus for most artists only in personally
historical occasions of pure, intense, moment?)
Prelude
So, here is a quote about Franz Shubert, one evoking that ethereal dominion wherein the essence of all creative effort is conjured. It reflects Shubert's own, engrossing space and also that special, compelling domain of all artists:
"He uses his modulations and ambiguous chords to create subtle changes of color in a sprawling landscape. He opens up space by distributing figures through far-flung registers of the piano, or by spreading a filigreed texture through the strings. In that space . . ."*
Every artist knows that space. There, expression is fashioned. It is an arena of chaotic potential. Of sparking intuition. Of thought and kinetic energy.
My own experience in that realm? When engrossed in the creative process, regardless of medium I seem to be in a prescient, inner place - in an arcane arena. There the personal idiom is generated, and I know something of my own core as an artist. A metaphysical space-time. I am stirred by an intuitive energy which yields the magical amalgam. It is the grand transmogrification of personality and encounter which is art. In this misty-clear region, the wonderful, compulsive act of art-making is realized.
I am in evolving dimensions of energy - reaching, stirring, composing an expanse of logical, sensual and emotional relationships. (If this seems grandiose, I also witness the same delightful energy-mix when I watch my young grandchildren drawing, painting, collaging, or composing music or poetry).**
This phenomenon of adding idea-to-impulse-to-fancy is life's most guileless, innocent and simple profundity.
My Paean to Art
An impulsive hand, and within the space, a gesture:
Conductor, painter, actor, dancer, there is shape, pattern, phrase.
As it compares, the mind overlaps, contrasts, contradicts, confirms.
It becomes its own self-engendered subtlety.
It sees conjunctions. Evocative accidents. Double-entendres.
It bespeaks images, ideas, effects
until all suffuses
and the space - the pregnant domain -
has become eloquence.
Isn't the essence of all art just that, the sensitive mind and reactive hand shaping
chaos
into potent form?
And, what is the chaos which becomes magic?
The chaos is of the eye, ear, touch. The chaos is of matter,
energy, ideas, memory.
Of medium - raw paints, sounds, wood, metal.
Of motions.
Words.
Of passions - love, joy, idealism, cynicism, compassion.
Of visions - silhouettes, calculations, multitudes, multiplicities, icons, dreams.
And of shadows, sun, darkness, color and glinting reflections.
All of these the intuition seizes in an illumination.
The chosen, the evoked, are modeled, cajoled -
played into poem:
The reflexes, the puns and mirroring, the cry, shy,
babble and laugh
become Image, the Grand Metaphor.
Life . . . Eloquence . . .
That's all art is.
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