#788 STORM!

9″ x 12″ watercolor, ink. When I finished this, and looked it … I thought, Tornado. People who have been in one would understand… but those who haven’t, have these funnel cloud images in mind and probably would wonder why I would give this that title.
#788 STORM!.JPG

$325.00   View more work at SaatchieArt,
on ArtFinder, and
on my web portfolio here ART BY WILLARD
For photos on this blog, click MY ART on the right panel and scroll down.

#785

11″ x 15″ Watercolor, ink.

Artists as diverse as Pollock, Klee, Rauschenberg and Piranesi in his Prison etchings–as well as most two dimensional art before the Renaissance– use a dispersed visual field, rather than focal point composition. This is characteristic of most of my work, as well. In focal point composition, there are one or more fixed points, or centers, which invite the eye to radiate out, placing the rest of the field in relation to each specific point of view. In a dispersed field, there are no fixed points, but rather a network of pathways, like organic rhizomes, inviting the viewer to wander freely through the visual field.

#785.JPGView more work at SaatchieArt,
on ArtFinder, and
on my web portfolio here ART BY WILLARD
For photos on this blog, click MY ART on the right panel and scroll down.

#780

40″ x 26″ Acrylic on canvas. PAINTED OVER

 

View more work at SaatchieArt,
on ArtFinder, and
on my web portfolio here ART BY WILLARD
For photos on this blog, click MY ART on the right panel and scroll down.

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?

Posterity

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?