40″ x 26″ Acrylic on canvas. PAINTED OVER
There was a time, wasn’t there… when poets, in their rooms at night, artists without patrons, would console themselves in the belief that–though the world would go on without them–there would be this thing…like a great house, or a city shaped like the future, to take up their work, and give it a place and a home. A room at the top of the stairs, like the one where they sat, but filled with light, windows, doors that opened to rooms like cathedrals, crowded with those who would be their descendents, their righful heirs?
What does it mean for us, now that the masters of death, in their corporate towers, have declared that it will all come to nothing, that the glaciers will melt and the seas will rise and they too, in their gated and armed fortress, will no more survive than the masses they have starved and bombed and drowned and burned… and all that we have made, the great buildings, the art, the music–all of it, gone?
I wonder if it would make more sense, Zen like, if what we make, we make in ashes in the rain… write our novels on Magic Slates, lifting the film, erasing, what we write a page at a time–or mantras in colored sand.
Why do we fool ourselves? Why do we pretend that any of this matters? Is it, perhaps, that it has always been like this? Always, the end of the world already here.. so quiet, we didn’t hear its coming?