casi cielo

In spite of absolutist clichés, light, or its absence, permeates all aspects of existence. Life, for one, fails to exist without its physical, cyclical presence and absence. We, being the majority of the human population, utilize daylight to carry on life’s functions (except for those who labor during graveyard shifts, for whom I revere with the upmost respect considering my craving for sleep sets with the sun); therefore, it cannot be ignored. In previous years, I tried my best to fight this natural constant by sleeping through all hours of the day (not that I cut any short at night), drawing the shades tight, wearing sunglasses even past dusk…the attempts continue. And so this unalterable daily occurrence compels reflection for its influence beyond our physical dependence.

            So enters art in the conversation of light. As aforementioned, the creation process requires both its presence and its absence, yet the tangible manipulation of light, the conflict of illumination, the want of internal luminosity all interject in the compilation of art. Recognizing the state of internal light is of utmost importance, not just for making art, but also for living life. Without acknowledging and reflecting on the light and darkness in our minds, our disposition, our attitudes, our souls, our intangible elements of existence, how can anything else be effectively communicated through physical representation?

In essence, light is impossible to fabricate devoid of internal sourcing. Of course, the feat may be attempted; the work itself, however, evokes a stronger response if it is the expression and elucidation of our internal state.

The majority of my past work probably concerned my close friends because they knew the darkness inspiring the pieces, but to me, it was brilliance. Not in a narcissistic way by any means, but I finally looked at a final project and knew I created a piece for more than a class assignment. It was as if I materialized my soul in the dark room, or stroked my suffering on a canvas, or stippled agony in the ink.

I existed through my art.

At some level, I hope every artist (i.e. every person) may experience the reality of darkness. Not that I wish suffering on people, but it is through suffering (I call it my dark time) one will fumble through dark recesses and experience a reality too raw to further elude authenticity in life.  The grappling to find one’s internal luminosity creates a canvas for masterpieces.

Once constructed, the display of such pieces must reflect the inspiration of the artist. Dismissing the origin shelves its reasoning, process, thought, purpose, etc.—in essence art would simply exist as material at which to glance in passing.

Sharing the process exercised to create the piece enables the artist to meet critics in their respectively lit or dim recesses, and to relate through much more than a physical piece. Art—authentic art—should never be produced without intention; it should never be a futile piece, briefly triggering interest without provoking further thought and response. Whether it evokes repulsion, appreciation, confusion, etc. depends on the luminosity inside the viewer.

The question arises; do they, in turn, know what light (or darkness) pervades them?

Oliver Windell Holmes Jr

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I met a man this morning on the lightrail in Portland. Except they don’t call it the lightrail. Just like they don’t use umbrellas. Things are different here. But that’s extraneous to this story. This man told me I could sit next to him, that he wouldn’t bite. I laughed a little under my breath, smiled and sat down.

That awkward silence when no one says anything when you’re pretty much snuggling on a public train because the seats are the size of chairs from kindergarten…yeah that happened. Then he started a conversation, just small talk asking about where I was going (airport) , where I was from (Denver), what I was doing in Portland (Justice Conference), oh you work for the courts? No, social justice, human rights advocacy. Oh…

So, naturally, I asked where he was headed. He said to the grocery store and then he didn’t know, whatever the day held.

There was something terribly attractive about this man. Maybe it was the fact that he said he wouldn’t bite. Maybe it was that he was taking the “lightrail” to the grocery store. Maybe it was his stark, blue eyes that smiled even when he wasn’t. Maybe it was the freedom in his day, his lack of plans.

Then the conversation changed. I don’t know why he told me, but he said he was debating going to church. A friend had invited him to go for a while, but he was reluctant, resistant even. He hadn’t been in a year or so because of things people had done.

People. People will always do things.

I don’t know what I said. But I asked him about his story and told him a little of mine. Miles apart, years apart, we were in the same place. Coincidence? He didn’t think so. He said this morning he didn’t know what to do, but he did now. I don’t even know what I said, but he had clarity. Had I convinced this man to go back to the institution I myself was sick of? Turned off by? What had I done?

I didn’t want that man to get off the train. I’m Dove. (maybe Doug?) he held out his hand. I slipped my sheet white, freezing cold hand into his. I’m Laura. I was smiling. He said thank you, he was so glad to have met me even though we’d probably never see each other again. Then he stood up and shuffled through my luggage and got off the train. My mind was stunned. I heard a knock on the window and looked up just in time to see him smiling, hand out in a still wave, walking into his day.

I don’t know how to explain it, I didn’t feel anything the way people talk about feelings. It wasn’t any physical thing, I didn’t feel warm and fuzzy inside, no tingly sensation. But for the first time, I think in my life, I understood and experienced joy. (not a feeling) A connectedness with my mind and my soul. A connectedness to another person. Connection. Connect. Con. nect. C.o.n.n.e.c.t.

Simple word. Not simply done.

Yes, I know now that there is such thing as a soul. And a personal soul. My soul, Dove’s soul. I can’t get that image out of my mind—his hand reaching out, through the window. Thank you, Dove, for your story. For stretching mine.

Grungin’

couldn’t have said it better myself

I am thankful beyond words

I love these two