An intermittent strobe in a lonely night
As I am standing by your side
Trying to breach this dark and deep divide
--Death Cab for Cutie (lyrics from the song Near/Far)
NOTE: Be forewarned--most of these quotes are taken completely out of context, which I find to make them infinitely more interesting. But really, they can all be somewhat playfully applied to making and appreciating art...
The first frame below is a close up of the second image which measured 3' x 4'. I have painted this face several times, experimenting with technique and materials. The third image is another version of the same face. I painted it using a 1/2" square of wood to stamp the pixels and a pencil eraser to dot the centers.
"To place this problem in more common terms, imagine you are talking to someone 6 meters away. If the two of you are in a quiet, empty room then a conversation is quite easy to hold at normal voice levels. In a loud, crowded bar, it would be impossible to hear the same voice level, and the only solution (for that distance) is for both you and your friend to speak louder. Of course, this increases the overall noise level in the bar, and every other patron has to talk louder too (this is equivalent to power control runaway). Eventually, everyone has to shout to make themselves heard by a person standing right beside them, and it is impossible to communicate with anyone more than half a meter away."
I am now considering the implications of this problem, not with regard to hearing, but as it impacts my ability to communicate by making art. Am I indeed "talking louder" with my work, shouting even, in order to draw attention to my art, ultimately just contributing the the "noise" and making it difficult for everyone to communicate? Lots to think about as I paint leather my faux today...
I will close with this poem by William Butler Yeats, because it is beautiful, and because it considers both physical distance as well as the emotional abstraction of near and far.
'Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning.'
And then she:
'Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the long border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep:
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!'
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'
The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him: and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more:
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
In bosom and hair.
'Ah, do not mourn,' he said,
'That we are tired, for other loves await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell.