My Roots

I decided long ago to pursue a career in fine art. Didn't happen. Why? Many reasons. Many circumstances. Mostly just a complete ignorance of what my own art is. What that looks like. I have come to believe that there are two species of artist. There are those who express themselves in regard to some stimulus be it nature, culture, politics, angst or some tension of sorts. Then there is the other kind of artist whose species I have been a member of for far too long. They are the artists who eat. The commercial artist who dives into profitable projects looking for artistic fulfillment in that medium and coming up short; mostly because a commercial artist is constantly pushed and pulled and molded by another person's or committee's will.  Their art can be truly astounding, astonishing, and even brilliant. But it will always lack one certain quality that brings an artist, all artists, lasting joy. . . the quality of being 100% their own.

This piece is 100% my own. I'll make more. A home I've never seen nor heard of haunts me in my dreams and beckons me across the ocean. My family hails from the British Isles, but that was many generations ago. We are deeply spiritual people and I can't help but wonder if we have an artistic vein running through time connecting all those generations together. I've forever been more than intrigued by Celtic art forms and their mysterious meanings. A deep kinship between myself and these images I happen upon is apparent to me. I know them, but I can't remember them. This is now my inspiration for artwork that will continue to be very personal to me. However, I'm irritated by most Gothic subculture and their clumsy use of Celtic design. They have little idea of what most of it means and I seriously doubt many of them care about it deeper than the superficial aesthetic they twist to their own shallow experience. As a whole, they've degraded the technique and practice to some ridiculous attempt at being unique. I feel their failure is epic. So, why shouldn't there be someone who steps in and, even if obscurely, refines the modern use of Celtic illumination to a more classical magic. This feeble first attempt is my answer to that question. I have far to go to reach the level of enlightened scripting my ancestors achieved. Look at the Book of Kells and tell me there was no absolute brilliance in that display of craftsmanship, detail, beauty, order, design, engineering, ardor for their art, and presentation. I believe these hidden treasures of luminary writ do slander the very height of early European achievement of the same attempt. There is more deep magic in that one collection of obscure Gaelic manuscripts than in the entirety of predictable, populare, and often political Renaissance European art put together. That's my humble opinion and I don't make it lightly. Many great pieces came out of the European centuries but nothing has held my wonder like these mysteriously unique lines. And I think that's what an artist needs to feel complete inspiration. . . something that captures their mind and binds them to cultural history in a sub-context they alone feel and few can understand.

So this is my art - a sliver of what's going on in my mind. My tools are my own mental cracks and fissures held together by knots of emotional twine and philosophical filament. I'll also use a few friends from Adobe (Photoshop and Illustrator) to help me finish. But no wire frames or 3D cheat programs. These must start out by hand. I will chase down these ancestors of mine and dig deeply into their existence, into their minds and find out what they were trying to say. I will repeat their message and add in my own artistic sentences. I will continue their story, because I believe it is also my own. If it remains obscure, then you have not looked deeply. If you don't look deeply, then it remains as it should be.

Waiting . . .

There is an old house at the end of Elm Street in downtown Woodstock, GA, that has been boarded up for quite some time. I've been trying to get in there for almost two years and this weekend, I finally got my chance. It's amazing how lack of human contact can destroy an inanimate object. You would think wear and tear would be far more damaging, but not so. Neglect is the most powerful destructive force on the planet. When anything is neglected, from property to relationships, great damage takes place. I believe it is the lack of love that is so dark. When something waits to be loved, there is great energy being lost.

This house is waiting for restoration. Luckily, it's going to happen. My job was to take artful before shots. Each room was filled with debris and longing. Are humans any different. How many rooms do I have filled with debris and longing? What about you? We can't do life on our own, I'm finding. We may as well board our entrances and sit in a forgotten lot and waste away.

It doesn't have to be that way. But somebody has to be willing to fight for it.

CONFIRMED

Yep, as some of you know, I went with my family to visit the most haunted place in America. That place would be Waverley Hills. If you've spoken with me, then you know that I'm a firm empirical believer that this place is not only haunted, but quite possibly THE waiting room for the afterlife. It's H.A.U.N.T.E.D. My group alone saw two full body apparitions, toy balls that appeared and disappeared, shadows that played in the hallway around people, many bangs and bumps, a live snake in the wall, and several of us were physically touched. Haunted. The end. So . . . why on EARTH would the now owners of this incredible place slap gargoyles all over the building. I seriously can't think of anything more incredibly tacky and in-genuine. It's like, it's not quite haunted enough. We need just a little more creep factor. Did I mention that the place is literally haunted?! We don't need to be primed with this kind of ridiculous circus promotion. Just take a walk through and you'll never see the place the same!

By the way, I love investigating paranormal locations and have done so since and will probably continue. But this place is on my no fly list. I have to admit, once was enough for me. I definitely felt like we were being hunted.

Frosty Thoughts From A Different Robert

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 

(Robert Frost)

Solomon's Revenge

There is a poison called neglect. It affects the greatest to the lowest. Once it does its work, there is no cure.