Presto. One-handed makes me feel lucky and unafraid in this tangy life we make up with our thought like the webbing of light on the page under the optical shadow, the lightfall, in my studio the day before yesterday. 

I was saying about microscopy, that there’s a whole essay story to be written, with supporting materials, and I know two good ways to write something like that.  One way is painful and the other way isn’t… i decide, at whose mercy but my own am i as to which i choose?  Into the work lean forward i am beseeched, forward into everything, even and especially the long dream we call the past, lean forward into it, even one-handed.

What is the work going to be, then , because as the hours and days pass, this wrist is weaving itself a cocoon, and it really will be out of the picture.  One handed thanks gods i can still type nearly at grade level.  How loose and blurred i need to remain empty of the cloying story that a hand-of-it is plainly created in the events – i already opened all the boxes of optics two handed, muse demanded a futon couch with pillows and a footstool and even an area rug, a nearly complete writing hole. with convenient arm prop pillows, purchased by Muse, velvet, against my will.  Then two days later I broke my left arm.

How the artist makes the vision of the world let me prove it you you now – i will say a phrase and you think of what picture comes to mind : the moment of the creation of man.  (ok now what was the very first image that flashed in your mind?)  was it, nay, t’weren’t it Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the meaty Roman hand of god and the geniusly depicted, yet-lifeless hand of the celestial moment before man inhabited body of man, there it is right there on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the moment of the body, the moment the body is electrified by life, ribbit ribbit i think of all the known ingredients of a frog shaken in a mason jar, churning no matter how long, nothing makes ribbit. Michelangelo makes it the peak of energy, the gap between god and man, mind the gap, he painted it that way and don’t think it was easy,  painting in one kind of nearly unlivable temperature or another, with bats and the crumbles of the ages, atop rickety scaffolding, channeling, rendering, not screwing up, a respectfully nearly triple-size figure, and then doesn’t it just make an artist duck and scan the horizon to have to paint the magnificent hand of god.

I will paint some one-handed essays, the art way, the painless way, the joyful way, cut outs from my regular ecstatic writing arranged about as well as a chimp might manage, collages from other bodies of my writing, by topics, yesiree.  And thusly too will my artist talk for Friday emerge.  It is not mine to fret, it is mine to lean forward, like all the other times.

Microscopy

Shark eyes whale eyes

Pan

Tami

FermiLab/Robert Wilson

Production line and old work

Looks Like

The collage way, one layer at a time…