"I, in comfort, bear the burden of my sight.”
With closed eyes, a sight elusive I see...not what is imagined, but what may be.
With
this as my vanguard, I paint. I have made art, today, this week and last,
tomorrow,
a week of time and space,
of drawing, of sketching, of painting...
on the floor, on paper thick and durable...well enough to sit upon, which I did,
as I marked, drew blends, and portrayed...
the small as though it were large,
the ignored as if it were important,
the shy escaping things because they are the marks of
our having come this way.
This is private, resolute, and secretive. This is a whisper.
“Who hears?"
Here, I see...not what I imagine, but what is there.
A paintingly expressed probable reality,
the drawing of its being true,
in this cosmos and, chances are, another,
but now it is merely a painting,
an echo of desire and intent,
a voice visually unencumbered.
Little fires in the imagination spark an audition of truth;
it enlightens and brightens the neglected child of our lives.
Ever present and personal, in all that we see we see ourselves.
For our having come this way, there is a voice in everything we do.
“Who listens?”
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The artist is the person
who makes life more interesting or beautiful,
more understandable or mysterious,
or probably,
in the best sense,
more wonderful.
– George Bellows