Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Regarding the question, Why?
I would love to say that over the past ten or so years that the one question I dread the most has changed or even gained a new face, it has not. The first person to ask me was my mother as I was her kitchen as a sophomore in college at the time. Phrasings have change as the lines progress at each performance although the reflection in the glass orb of the mind is the same swimming undefined interest despite any qualitative decision. Why do you(we) do this? I can see the years peel away from the faces like fragmenting shelf's of sedentary rock revealing the three year old in all of us, Why, Why, Why, in the most cherished of inquiries that should be left intact throughout the aging which is human life. Salute!, Cheers!, Bravo!, and all other praises to those who take part. Our journey to the answer of why is not a trivial carnival likened act but, one of crashing the car beyond the concrete barrier where we are supposed to park the car made by the mind.
I took a literal pun based upon heart-ache in the cliche of artistic love lost in the initial creation, fried, burned out and an old sense of romance. What we do as we meet on the street or other arena is not bound by those infantile reaction any more than you are the child doting upon your parents affections because, the sun and time causes growth from celestial bound mysteries. I can be topical and say it represent the unhealthy lives so many Americans and other world citizens live but, to say that would be to cap the ideas conceived within. I can say it is a call to all to transform there vision of the ordinary, finding the sacred from in profane in a manner of a formerly sacred object form. I can say be absurd and reek your world to less materialism. We can scream Hallelujah in remembrance of St. John who left unscathed by boiling oil due to his faith of God. Or, I can say that our dependence on fossil fuels will kill us all. I can claim that America has become so anti-intellectual that we can no longer find reason or compassion beyond our self interests, greed, anger or fatigue. To do so would be to forget that you are as crucial in the meaning as the sunlight is to our collective existence or bane of our future times.
You may think at this point that I and we do not have a meaning for doing this, it is not so. Our action puts meaning into each artifact created which is what is done as we fry each book with and without direction. In honor of the Taoist thought the remains become the material for the notion of the 'Uncarved Block,' forgive any lack of explanation here as it is a breach of contract (Universal). I claim humility, being just a simple being at the feet of the masses which have placed there energy into this project by participating making it so democratic that one voice is no voice rather all voices are of the harmonies, bending light upon our observations and life.
I wonder myself after each performance leading to the artist book and beyond how I will change statements as I learn more about the human condition of what I may lay claim to?
Pleading as the eyes ask, as I do my humble choirs of handling the books chosen and asking in return why, we complete a revolution around the sun in moments to be yet judged if ever. As the imagined archaeologists of the future find the actions in solid form of our collaboration, what will they think of our world and the statement we were making or our beliefs. Can they be wrong even under our most adamant refusal because, we have lost sight of who we are and what we represent. Can I define you through your cooperation with this project or are you likely to state you are but, one of many in an action of exploration. I hope for exploration in all categories of existence and being. I as a humble servant say I know not as I am but, one who is of many.
DFB
I took a literal pun based upon heart-ache in the cliche of artistic love lost in the initial creation, fried, burned out and an old sense of romance. What we do as we meet on the street or other arena is not bound by those infantile reaction any more than you are the child doting upon your parents affections because, the sun and time causes growth from celestial bound mysteries. I can be topical and say it represent the unhealthy lives so many Americans and other world citizens live but, to say that would be to cap the ideas conceived within. I can say it is a call to all to transform there vision of the ordinary, finding the sacred from in profane in a manner of a formerly sacred object form. I can say be absurd and reek your world to less materialism. We can scream Hallelujah in remembrance of St. John who left unscathed by boiling oil due to his faith of God. Or, I can say that our dependence on fossil fuels will kill us all. I can claim that America has become so anti-intellectual that we can no longer find reason or compassion beyond our self interests, greed, anger or fatigue. To do so would be to forget that you are as crucial in the meaning as the sunlight is to our collective existence or bane of our future times.
You may think at this point that I and we do not have a meaning for doing this, it is not so. Our action puts meaning into each artifact created which is what is done as we fry each book with and without direction. In honor of the Taoist thought the remains become the material for the notion of the 'Uncarved Block,' forgive any lack of explanation here as it is a breach of contract (Universal). I claim humility, being just a simple being at the feet of the masses which have placed there energy into this project by participating making it so democratic that one voice is no voice rather all voices are of the harmonies, bending light upon our observations and life.
I wonder myself after each performance leading to the artist book and beyond how I will change statements as I learn more about the human condition of what I may lay claim to?
Pleading as the eyes ask, as I do my humble choirs of handling the books chosen and asking in return why, we complete a revolution around the sun in moments to be yet judged if ever. As the imagined archaeologists of the future find the actions in solid form of our collaboration, what will they think of our world and the statement we were making or our beliefs. Can they be wrong even under our most adamant refusal because, we have lost sight of who we are and what we represent. Can I define you through your cooperation with this project or are you likely to state you are but, one of many in an action of exploration. I hope for exploration in all categories of existence and being. I as a humble servant say I know not as I am but, one who is of many.
DFB
Hammering whiskey oars of book children
Hammering nails fight to fatigue the words being hammered over there attempts to quite the spirit that forces them into wood. The great and drumming creative monkey that rides the backs of men like some kind of surreal Darwinian Cowboy. Hie, Hie they call with their long tails whipping the ears of the driven to increasing speed. As the hammer falls again the beginnings of the conversation fall upon deaf ears but, not a deafened heart. "Book arts......Pow...Pow...Pow.. strict conservation..Pow..Pow.. giving me greive..Pow..over.Pow..pow.. my projects....Poww Pow pow. Pow, you know what would..POW.POW..POW.. really kick their...Pow Goat.. POw.. my Deep fried book..Pow," so it went until laughter halted the hammer blows causing sweat to mix with tears of laughter and salty irritation.
We took a deep breath and held our tongues till the days labor was finalized, savoring the sweet treats to come on the river in a moment of relaxation, before our muscles ceased from grunting day after day for the glory of newly remolded basement. With whiskey wished oars we drift into the small cove of a tiny river laughing-in-reunion over the absurd reception the imagination put forth when joking about the deep fried book I once made. If you ever are to make a contract, I tell you it must be from the gut as ours was that day hands replaced by the shaking of bellies in the riots of fervor that had broken hold of its dam. Whether damned and dismissed or heralded as a heretic we would resurrect my one time object so to collaborate on the book project we now undertake.
Of the many art disciplines in the world, books arts has always had its eyes on making well crafted works meant to last for generation to reach a venerated realm of cherished care. Antithesis might come to your lips but, when handling cancers bred into the body you acknowledge your cherished realm of veneration will be in memory and not in the physical everlasting. After all how many mass produced books are meant too last. Still, as always mutation or transmutation can produce unexpected results so when considering the life of our collaborative children only history has the privilege of counting our blessings.
Like all births we have relished the joy of the spontaneous moments of conception but, we have had to raise the project through trial and error as any parent must with a child of an odd nature. I am sure you can remember at least one time when you defied your parents best efforts to pen you into some idea they had about or for you. As such I feel that way about every book we have made as each is a branch of its own yet, part of largest of trees.
DFB
We took a deep breath and held our tongues till the days labor was finalized, savoring the sweet treats to come on the river in a moment of relaxation, before our muscles ceased from grunting day after day for the glory of newly remolded basement. With whiskey wished oars we drift into the small cove of a tiny river laughing-in-reunion over the absurd reception the imagination put forth when joking about the deep fried book I once made. If you ever are to make a contract, I tell you it must be from the gut as ours was that day hands replaced by the shaking of bellies in the riots of fervor that had broken hold of its dam. Whether damned and dismissed or heralded as a heretic we would resurrect my one time object so to collaborate on the book project we now undertake.
Of the many art disciplines in the world, books arts has always had its eyes on making well crafted works meant to last for generation to reach a venerated realm of cherished care. Antithesis might come to your lips but, when handling cancers bred into the body you acknowledge your cherished realm of veneration will be in memory and not in the physical everlasting. After all how many mass produced books are meant too last. Still, as always mutation or transmutation can produce unexpected results so when considering the life of our collaborative children only history has the privilege of counting our blessings.
Like all births we have relished the joy of the spontaneous moments of conception but, we have had to raise the project through trial and error as any parent must with a child of an odd nature. I am sure you can remember at least one time when you defied your parents best efforts to pen you into some idea they had about or for you. As such I feel that way about every book we have made as each is a branch of its own yet, part of largest of trees.
DFB
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