A note from a daughter lead me to this...

Cities, nations and empires have fallen through out history, but art has never brought one down, Art has only brought them to greatness. When there is a choice to be made, I will go with ART every time.

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Today I return from the hill.

I  return from the hill with paradox as my being. "All I ever really wanted was to go home with you" a truth that happened and a dream that came true, but life is a moment by moment reality. I know the me in stability while being in paradox  following  the flow-line closely, reflecting on the space between body and soul. Body knows weights and lengths and is governed by the pull of the earth. Soul moves beyond the tides rush and knows no boundaries. Both are bound at the heart, but one is of flesh and blood, the other gives rise to beliefs governing the spirit of action, where by making the incorporeal the center of feelings and thoughts that measures vastness,  distance to distance.   Sometimes I stand alone between here and there and know that Wise Blood flows deep and gives me the gains from many. I gather close and stand ready on the joint bar, all the while tracking through the spin-drift of the horizon. 

There are many things that fill the soul, questions that whelm the core of intuit, the living language from below all levels, under the outward-ness of the eye. Questions  made of moments reduced from patterned waves washed from currants rushing,  moments layered along the rise of log jams in bows, bends and banks.  Maybe we all follow the flow of the minds river bed, where the rise and fall of edges marks our being with scarred reality giving proof of the processes of deeds done, transformed into mantels of belief. Art being the residue of lines drawn and boundaries set. The time is now to make the cut with deliberate intent and with full knowledge of how the hammer comes down and the axes deliverance being one to one with the specifics of goal. I gather the residue carefully and mold it into solidity with wood, steel and stone, objects that hinges us to the next order, I bond with the bones of history and seek the blood of forever as my truth. I don't ask, "whose truth", or "which truth" I except the vision as my on, I count me in. There are few who hold the hand of forever and come back to show the way of what is below the level as it is above the level, subconscious and conscious having a conversation. Me speaking with me, it is truth time with lots to cut away, lots to change and lots to release. It is not easy when the flow line rises and passes through each, there is a fight for survival and some are lost in the wash. Yes there are many things that fill the soul in personal battle and survival depends on the trust of the ignition, that set going moment when intuition takes the driving wheel and steers me on. I have a long way to travel today, I must be on my way. 

James 

James Drake at the Station in Houston, Texas

The James Drake exhibition at "The Station" in Houston, Texas is just one more confirming look at one of the best artist of our time. This is the kind of show that Jim Harithas does at the Station, a no bull shit view of a artist who produces in the absolute. The big drawing of a bird nest, done in red is a convincing shot at being a true master piece. But so are some of the other works in the show. If you are in Houston, go to the Station and see the Drake show.

Walking Flower times the Power of Five

Again this morning

In the morning Charmaine and I will go to Houston to be front and center at the Orange Show Ball, this is a not to miss full blown good time. Houston is home to those who will risk the leap. My kind of city. Then I will fly on to Oklahoma City and spend time looking at a site for an out door sculpture. Then comes the good part, I get to go home and be in the studio for a stretch of time. Back to art and chicken soup. Mostly it is all I want to do. Just make sculpture and draw. I wonder what any thing I do or stand for has to do with fashion in Paris, or the click of runway heels, or of what is hot or not. Art world stuff is art world stuff, like a piece of dust is a piece of dust.

Some times I feel I am the flight feathers collectively pushing against the head winds of time, to rise through the down draft is no easy task, but being a free soul I have to ask "what is out there?" What is most important?

"Me and Rough God"

I stood in the circle out beside the house this morning and tried to see the Big Dipper turning its handle counter clock wise in the northern sky, it is hard to perceive movement in star patterns, they only show movement in relation to something else, which means I have to be still, real still for a long period and  use the silhouette of the pinons on the northern ridge line as markers, and be patient, the spin will show its self in time, each moment has its glory.  So calm is this morning, before the sunrise, before breakfast,  before the hand axe starts its steady rhythm of chop chop chopping, or before the rasp gnaws the surface to form, before the maul strikes the anvil. Each stroke gives meaning to wood, steel and stone.  This is as old as human history,  conjuring from what is, it is the acceptance of "Is" and knowing "I am" embedded deep in these moments, concluding only that the the bloom of the flower is no more than the cutting edges of broken stones, all having its day.   It is "Me and the Rough God"

What is the relationship of what I do and who I am and what I represent on the path of our long walk in History. I look up from my breakfast bowl and see Blake and Thoreau. They give me comfort, knowing full well that God is as rough as any moment the Seeker will encounter. The path is long and I keep up the pace.