Dark_and_Light

Something draws my attention. I want to own it, but not OWN it. I want to absorb it into my being. I take my metaphorical pen to metaphorical canvas and slash away, spilling my blood into the keyboard and splashing onto the screen. Birthed the other side of the frenzy isn't what caught my attention, the subject, but rather my rendering, by incarnation of the subject, my creation. The brush having laid down pigments, I close the file, moving on. It's therapy, a feeble attempt to deny impermanence's cold embrace. People, some people, have encouraged me to make my work available, I guess, so they can hang a 30 x 40 print on their walls and soak their toast in the gravy of my angst, sopping up the dark and the light. My art is therapy, not a vocation. I have concerns about becoming an "artist for money," in any manner, that somehow my art and intent is corrupted. To that end, for the time being, I plan on passing any net proceeds from sales to the American Cancer Society, specifically Relay for Life. Thanks for listening.