A spot collaboration made by the students of Vision, Voice, and Practice, and interdisciplinary course in art and writing practice at Biola University.
A spot collaboration made by the students of Vision, Voice, and Practice, and interdisciplinary course in art and writing practice at Biola University.
A spot collaboration made by the students of Vision, Voice, and Practice, and interdisciplinary course in art and writing practice at Biola University.
The space between the dots must be enjoyed. The process, not the product--everything.
I've trained my eyes to see the ways we talk.
Now I detect distracted glances aimed at phones and watches; validation's lack creating vacuums for attention. Speak.
ces between stitched and scribbled (or sown and scrawled) lines sit amidst splas ainted splatter to say something about the present sensation.
empty canvas conceals and emphasizes the atypical subject matter;
ts over people, iPhone over DSL, pleasure over pressure.
emory of her mother, wood-burned images of hand-drawn photographs feel
nished until physically understood.
Is the importance in the clarity or the
ability of vision? I don't know if my eyes are clear or if my glasses are broken because it looks like a glacier rendezvousing with a cliff, a hill sloping into a waterfall, but I think I know that back--that little valley of your spine, that small constellation of moles beneath the shadow of your shoulder's plateau, even the bolts of bone in your neck are familiar--I've stared at it enough times.
Have you ever seen the vases and
urns chipped, littered with imperfections? Their cracks and gaps and missing pieces are filled with gold. People gaze at them, place them on display because they are beautiful, and this because they are broken.
nature burned to a square
of wood with tear stains grieved by memories of mom.
Fifteen minutes. I can't see. Breathe a
tired breath. Arms outstretched. Make a thing. Go to bed.
A tree becomes a man; an oceanic
wave becomes a woman; and a white cloud filled with fresh, to-be rain becomes a child--but these people are not like beasts with already assigned meaning. They are not Kings of the Jungle. They are not Queens of the Hive. Their meaning is a landscape daily bothered by its master, an eager volcano repeatedly spewing a phoenix.
Take your 3-D sphere and drown it in
a 2-D square, but first remove all evolved apes to keep the square's Antarctic waters clear. Take not the favored tip of Mount Everest, nor any other part of its outside. Dissect this Tower of Babble that is just a pebble in the universe, and remember its beating, crying heart. Listen to the heart's beat--budum-dum-dum--and hear its unsung lyrics, as it thunders quietly like lightning, "Take these beasts among beasts and their shadows away from me."
Backward people painted over
thoughts therapeutically released onto paper. A word given up to individual interpretation made image, with tools unfamiliar and blunt.
She realized that people weren't as
perfect as she had hoped, and that digitalization didn't make much of a difference. His work is laid before him, lapsed in the movements of the stars. Extrapolating beauty from rejects, taking new forms.
Running on cement, collecting trash,
losing time Hastily describing the images with paint, graphite, and watercolor.
She tended the garden and held each
flower with care, the noise of passersby obsolete. The black paint was splattered on the cardstock asking what you saw in its seemingly random pattern. He hoped the disassembled pieces before him would reveal more about the product they produced.
She checks email in bed, her face
obscure by a baby. The 84 Civic parked outside Paradise Palms Apartments holds piles of Marys pictures, and strapped to the roof a coin-operated Dalecarlian horse rests on a hydraulic pedestal, bible verses written on it in blue livestock tag.
What happened on Tuesday became a
part of your postcard, a conglomeration of will I / won't I, the overheard and overlooked of the week. Your archives celebrate the impermanence of Friday in ink.