Friday, August 21, 2009
Here, in the yellow light, each word pulls me closer to my destiny. As you can plainly see, I’m slowly working my way out of the thicket. The only life I’m left with, as I look at the span I’ve managed to traverse, is the one I gave to Beauty. Correction: I could say, the one I gave for Beauty.
Along with the England of my youth, Beauty has been relegated to some small sphere of the past-tense. Yearning to free myself of guilt, I can only envision the vast overturning of many a rock. I could go back, sure I could, and the spiral I’d see coming up the road, would, damn-well, still be there:
Each month, unfurled, in a dream-weave; a monument, erected in honor of the out-of-control; a simple, yet unbalanced, affair of the heart; and, a churning of all things illuminating, distorted into something gross, something unheard of, revealed.
No getting away from it, I’d say.
Beauty entered my life, pretty as they come, on Christmas Eve morning. [After all the peddling it would take to get to this part of the story, I wouldn’t have had enough air left in me to complete the journey. In any event, I continue slowly, acknowledging this long-winded flight of fancy, which in the aftermath can only attest to my present state of mind. God knows.]
My life turned out to be much more subtle than what could be gathered in words alone. If I could speak freely about my History, with all its implications laid out as testament to my present condition, there wouldn’t be any great leaps gone unnoticed.
In respect to the craft of painting, I was single-minded; selfishly aligned to my own vision of what constituted a fine work of Art. My business was the business of creation; however, when it came to outspokenness, or the opinion of another painter in the field, I kept my own council within myself,withdrawing fully from the spectacle at hand. [To put it bluntly, I’ve seen a lot of crap hung upon a gallery wall. At times, its taken all the powers of an Apollo not to spit on the canvas, while shouting the word “shit” towards the rafters.]
As so much of personality resides close to hearth and home, I suppose whatever restraint I’ve developed can be traced to my upbringing:
As a child, I tended to be happiest when in my own thoughts. You could always find me off in some corner somewhere, colouring or sketching.
Another factor, which can be traced, added, to the stew, is the fact that in our humble, working-class, flat, children were born to be seen, not heard; even if we were heard, we wouldn’t be able to get a word in sideways, for all the bickering that went on, back and forth. Without compromise, Art became everything. My solitary ways, and the taunts of Others, caused me much grief--but, no matter.
I could have ruined myself against a cliff-face; however, I still managed in my young life to hope-against-hope, plow ahead, full speed. Within this City, my adopted home, every brushstroke was an appeal to clarity, and sanity; a consummate vision, born out of solitude.
Posted by William H. Balzac at Friday, August 21, 2009