Reining a demon …
… Beauty … Beauty certainly isn’t a demon, is it …(or maybe – she)?
Is there a tethering grace to hold the pony’s desertion or revenge?
There is noise in bumping cans, tubes, brushes, bottles, razorblades dividing pleasure from depression (simple, just scrape off callused dried bumbles). There is racket in traffic, robo-calls, bad media speakers, word questions for which there are no answers (impatience awaiting sober silence or skill?). There are memories, bits of love, clanging mushy heady grey matter (or warm red embodiments), alarms beepbeepbeeping (is it commerce or just legality?). There is loud partisan truth (for which there is no rebuttal). All this, and obviously more, attend while roping a delusion … the reining of Beauty.
And yet some, covered with dust and ashes, persevere. That is okay, and noticed, but please don’t burden the wrangler with your delusions. It’s that day’s work, a tiny skirmish with an outrider of the sublime, a vengeful circus pony; and plenty for the painter’s day.
Beauty has within – a wildness – to birth awe, but beauty is not awe. Beauty is tied to controlling acts of delusion, of a final ruling, maybe unity, even unalterable hushed simplicity; beheld, maybe, in joy. And yet it changes, often degrades; entropy attending the stillbirth of awe.
Artistics possessors of technique and emotions, even greyed and ash covered ones, mostly lack that silent simplicity: and seek painting (circus ponies and more) for fun. Now there is a delusion! Fun is less than joy, and that’s a fact. The restraining lead tied to beauty is going to snap and lash through delusions, the stumbling, the wild skill-less drippings, the slashing; the meek even cowardly smoothing: hoping for that simplicity, a circus going solemn. And yet, beauty is more than that and less than awe, and that’s a fact.
But shouldn’t fear reign in the confrontation with demons?
Can we be fools, funning with Beauty, restraint ruining the savage unleashing of joy: and still face (and even grasp) the descent of awe?
It is how the circus ponies get their revenge.
Theatrical extras, birds and small mammals, escaped during a mystery play rehearsal (to have been performed here at the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture).
In the beginning, We had sweet and simple idea remember? This was a place where the creative and natural could have a simple reunion: inviting neglected anarchists and enfant terribles from now and the ages, to a country picnic. A rural simplicity joined, sharing art. We refused proper names (except for Yorick) in the hope that all would feel included, even unmemorialized names. We have appointed The Deciders, for simplicity, to service opportunities in this old circus tent become museum. Deciders are rendered as the spiritual hobby-horse head of their youth, a personae, avoiding issues of photo rights.
Play is the eldest of habits, preceding the scribbling on cave walls, the accumulation of stuff, the maturation of mythical leaders, the harvesting of row-crops, the forming of balls (and bombs), and the counting graphs of wealth and power.
Please excuse the following official note:
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 