Art's a funny thing. Sometimes it comes easy, sometimes it's a struggle, sometimes it's inspired feeling and sometimes it's contrived. I guess that's why it's called a "work of art". It is work, but it's also play (as play is "work" for toddlers), and as we play, more and more, we worry less and less about results. Eventually it's only play and only in the moment. The more we do art the more skilled we get at all this until we can even contrive inspiration. That sounds weird (even contrived) but it's not when you think about how "we" are the constant in both instances, we are creating both situations, so why not get familiar and comfortable enough with ourselves that we can go back and forth without the blocks of self-critical judgment. In this way critical judgment is embraced and put to work guiding the process (just as a sense of balance keeps us walking - skipping, hopping, running, dancing - where we want to go). The inspiration may be a simple as, "I want to go there!", while the contrivance can be, "I want to go now, or wait until afternoon, and this is the route I'll take..." What happens then and there is anyone's guess, and that's art.

This morning I wanted to write a poem about ravens.. I'm not sure why, just the thought of them inspired it (I'd heard one brief croak from one on a nice hike up a local mountain a few days ago, and that was the impetus I guess), and one line came to me;

"Raven with his cloak of feathers
Shimmers in the setting Sun"

But that was it! The rest of the poem had to be worked out, coaxes out and then hack up until it made some sense, even though I really had nothing more I wanted to say.

The same thing happens a lot of times when I paint with encaustics. Usually I just want to paint, to create and then in the process find all sorts of suggestions and feedbacks to tell myself if it's working, and if it's embodying some degree of soul. Soul's important you know, maybe the only thing that is. But it's an elusive thing. Sometimes it comes on and it's all that is. Sometimes only its shadow remains. And sometimes, like Elvis, it has left the building.

I'll include my morning poem at the end here in just a minute, but the picture accompanying this post is what moves me the most and eventually gave my raven poem some direction, context and significance. I remember painting this encaustic in the winter of 2018. I'd been painting with encaustics less than a year and everything was an experiment. That day I played around and eventually ended up with something I liked, but didn't even know what it was until I stood back to see. In that moment it struck me that the nebula at the heart of creation had revealed itself to me - the Raven With Big Heart Nebula, the creation myth of the ancient people of the land I live on brought to light and life. It moved me as only real art can do. But then again, who is the one being moved (ie. doing the moving) than oneself, always oneself...

This painting still invokes a sense of awe in me as it really looks like old trickster raven which I could never have intentionally done. And yet I did, or perhaps it's better to say, I contrived to play enough to allow some space for inspiration.

Raven
Raven with his cloak of feathers
Shimmers in the noon day Sun
Calling, laughing, hopping, dancing
Plays with light in joy for fun

Teach us now for we have fallen
Far from grace that comes with dawn
As the night quickly approaches
Lead us on the path you’ve drawn

Calling, laughing, hopping, dancing
Raven leaves us where we are
Silly child who grasps a rainbow
Light refracting from a star

So it goes in endless cycles
Step by step we trudge along
While Sun and Earth dance as partners
Only Raven knows the song
(9/24/23)

https://images.gr-assets.com/photos/1...