this is the morning of our lives.
My days are full and thinking through life’s many endeavors and meanings has been pushed to an occasional past time.
Mike and I traveled to Tacoma today. I saw some bad performance art and some beautiful pieces of glass. I have had a slight fascination for the work of Dale Chiuluy. Today, for the first time, I saw it up close. Out of slides. Transmitted from pages in books and images on screens into solid figures that danced with color and shape. Images only dreamt and never realized. They felt like figures from children’s dreams that faid and taint as time passes and we grow old. The best art is at its roots. I mean that not in the sense that it is simple to create, but that it familiarizes with a simple state, familiarity, nostalgia or meaning, a weight to it, social or private. It is understood, whether the understanding is something no one shares as the same.
Mike and I traveled to Tacoma today. I saw some bad performance art and some beautiful pieces of glass. I have had a slight fascination for the work of Dale Chiuluy. Today, for the first time, I saw it up close. Out of slides. Transmitted from pages in books and images on screens into solid figures that danced with color and shape. Images only dreamt and never realized. They felt like figures from children’s dreams that faid and taint as time passes and we grow old. The best art is at its roots. I mean that not in the sense that it is simple to create, but that it familiarizes with a simple state, familiarity, nostalgia or meaning, a weight to it, social or private. It is understood, whether the understanding is something no one shares as the same.