I haven't blogged yet. And while there are a variety of pointless excuses for this, in reality it's because I often feel that words are my enemy. I can use them, manipulate them, choose superb specimens as an end to a means, and turn a nice phrase, but none of this matters because the WORD, language itself, is the nemesis of the image.
I communicate through images, they tell my stories whether it be tattooed on my hands or painted on a piece of wood. I often want to give language to the image, but the words do not come. The words laugh at me and tell me to keep my eyes closed and then I might understand better how to transform visual into aural.
It's not a dance, it's a duel.
Somehow I am still possessed of this idea to write accompaniments to my paintings, even though I truly believe the paintings should tell their stories without needing words.
Maybe I need the words. The WORD, to unlock all the stories in a single gush from my fingertips. Or maybe more like a flood of tears.
I could be afraid of the words because they are not as aesthetically pleasing to my mind as the images.
The sound of a woman wailing is the saddest thing you can hear.
I think sometimes if I let the words come they will only be a formless wail announcing to anyone who can hear all of my sadness and I don't really want any of you to know about that.