Steve's F

Steve's F

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

Sap rising, spring stirring

You can't live in England and complain about the weather. We just become part of the grey drops of grey rain and grey sky which shroud us. That is until something unexpected shimmers unaware, like a fallen star in the hedgegrow. Like light, caught unaware.

Saw the engravings and watercolors of Georgio Morandi on Sunday at the Esotrick Collection in Islington on Sunday. Blank space on the paper symbolised solidity and sun baked stone walls. Furious but regimented cross hatchings became sinister shadow spaces. The space between shapes took on a greater significance than the "filled in." There's more than just taking up space.

There is meaning and value in everything, it reads on the exhibition cards, by reaching into the metaphysical.
Obsession is limiting and wastful intensity. Beautiful film,  a late quartet. How thrill and deep experience don't replace a constant movement towards a shared destination.  It's   a eulogy to slow decay and unlived awareness. Stories of lives untold. I don't understand hating something so much that you can destroy yourself to get a last look back and claws in for vengeance.

Stay drenched.

Sunday, 7 April 2013

Letting go

When I lose myself and let go, some things extra ordinary always happen.

“Lost really has two disparate meanings. Losing things is about the familiar falling away, getting lost is about the unfamiliar appearing. There are objects and people that disappear from your sight or knowledge or possession; you lose a bracelet, a friend, the key. You still know where you are. Everything is familiar except that there is one item less, one missing element. Or you get lost, in which case the world has become larger than your knowledge of it. Either way, there is a loss of control. Imagine yourself streaming through time shedding gloves, umbrellas, wrenches, books, friends, homes, names. This is what the view looks like if you take a rear-facing seat on the train. Looking forward you constantly acquire moments of arrival, moments of realization, moments of discovery. The wind blows your hair back and you are greeted by what you have never seen before. The material falls away in onrushing experience. It peels off like skin from a molting snake. Of course to forget the past is to lose the sense of loss that is also memory of an absent richness and a set of clues to navigate the present by; the art is not one of forgetting but letting go. And when everything else is gone, you can be rich in loss.” ― Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost