Oil And Pigment On Canvas
H 71cm X W 111cm
Signed 26th Jan 2017 
FOR BECKY X
The Thousands of Possibilities That Lay Between Us…
Remain Strong And True , Pulsing Reams of Information.
The Lines of code Written Through
A Tapestry Of Our Ways .
Liquid Hearts Always Meeting .
Smiles Born , Truth Shared…
Always Seeking A Higher Existence .
Our Divine Pasts Merging .
We Will Always Be seeking Rainbows Together,
Always Close…
‘The Singularity’ Oil and Pigment on Canvas 91cm(h) x 121cm(w)
Wandering through intellect and memory making a map of my evolution …The emergence from the cave gives innocence a chance to grow anew and reflect upon things as a whole cycle . Here I lay myself down deeper and deeper into the natural matrix …
Finding a language that encompasses truth all inclusive, seeking the evolution of the marks made and translated to the moments of eternal return. The city heaving and breathing an energy of humanity moving forward , breathing through my roots I accept my place.
Into the waters and the wild, into the vibrant memory of freedom, Soul dwelling and body breathing. All that I have been still remains … When the water clears those wonderful imperishable moments of pure bliss shine.
I approach again with a need to write …The waves of intellect have crashed on numerous occasions against my will, like the waves that roar with the sheer power of the ocean, white water power. The foam I consider to be the evidence of passion is all but expunged by frivolous over thinking and an ultimate descent into pointlessness. I had deceived myself into thinking that I had nothing constructive to say. There I sat for weeks, head spinning ravenous thoughts around in a spiral , like a pac man munching up all the delicate passion.
My head still spins with forming thoughts holding tension that I must release. The mounting unexpressed minions dragging me to a place where nothing is soft enough or clear enough. The pointlessness dresses my soul in the foulest of rags , and does not even take joy in it’s victory! The odor has grown to a stifling intensity, it acts like a drug that changes my perception… finally I move to open the window. New air has such fragrance that it makes my mouth water , a desire for something other begins to manifest. I find myself naked and clean with a fresh stack of enthused potential.
Maybe now that I have my own permission thoughts may be allowed to crystalize at a natural pace instead of speeding in confinement. The act of writing begins the release of debris, the rattling of chains and the chink of light. The motion of doing has the tendency to quiet the mind, fishing out those core truths. Instead of shooting fish in a barrel one gazes upon the vast open nature that is their habitat. Writing creates room for ideas and their details , slightly apart from the chaos but still connected. The deep multidimensional well of reality is in constant motion, full of the diversity of many mundane acts. The rich and beautiful notion of prayer and altruism. Routine that is gently laid upon the rest of the random mind.
A time of moments that are intense and rest that is a bit restless. The sky remains dark with those long long dusky evenings that speak of many moments compacted, one upon another. That feeling of memory in the light, a place in the cycle revisited with new awareness, with history like an invisible pillar. It is still Winter… Awareness grounding me in this place, this nameless state so full of a myriad, diverse and changing memories … Too many to grasp … so to let go and be a moving part with a little bag of poetry.
That beautiful spongey silence with water heavy in the air and breath finding presence in the visual realm. The weather turns cold again and I must release all expectation of what will be, what is forming and what is already written. The present regarded as time passing is a thought that needs to be transformed. I am feeling a little lost with an underlying sadness that threatens to engulf me. It is a nameless thing colored by the small acts of destruction we commit against ourselves. As these thoughts gather pace again water waits and slowly rises, waiting for critical mass to force the release and the healing. The salty tears flow to cleanse the wounds of the body and of the soul.
Photograph by Artist
A trickle of truth with the life span of a puddle in the midday sun. The stain remains as a reminder of it’s existence, micro minerals sparkling in an invisible realm. Truth surrounding us in tangible invisibility … is it all about faith?. Believing in the transformative moment, waiting to wake up to the possibility of creating something real. My faith remains hidden in the rich silt, like the distant waterfall in memory of a moment lived. I am pushed to enter into the fray and create new moments or I shall drown in these stagnant waters of past glories that shackle me. In a strange way they keep me safe and stuck … feeding off the marrow of the carcass that once walked in the wild.
All this talk of freedom makes me pound harder against the glass of containment that has grown up around me. I long to be barefoot again yet I do not remember how to untie these boots. The solutions that once worked are fragile and broken, rules have eroded and evolved. Looking into the void I see nothing and have no patience to let eyes adjust to the total darkness of what may be. So I shall bind myself to this chair and wait beyond hunger for my eyes to adjust and begin to see glory once more.
All the murmuring expectations will take time to run their course and I do not know if they will ever really be silent, but I hope. With hope there is fertile ground for positivity and for now that is more than enough.
Photograph by Artist
The trembling of the leaves seems more personal as I stand here open to the connection that calls from my trees. This Beech was only a dozen leaves old when she called to me to enter the circle…It is a staggered affair now, but as I really look it is still a place which contains some natural magic. The darkness at my heels questions the possibility…
It is always a birth after such a void of dark thoughts, a dance that I must dance to seal the birthing again to life. A dance of bestial intent with a raw desire for passionate movement…In the forest amongst the spirits of the grove, feeling their rhythm and peace being lost in the soft earth and moss, that quenches my thirst to be filled. Filled with wonder of an innocence that remains a constant presence in the wild places, places formed with the wind. I seek the wild places that have been formed in me.
Memory reminds me once more to walk upon the path of my people. I find it in music no question, in notes that resonate with such extreme beauty…There is nothing quite like making music even if it is only for a long moment. It seems that the moment is the thing that stays far beyond it’s experiencing. Past informing the future becoming eternal. Many moments have gathered like leaves in the wind, I make a bed with them on which to lie. Dreaming of so many possibilities without a commitment to live any one with real vigor…I suppose it is in my nature that is water, always changing depth and perspective…probably need to build a few dams at least long enough to finish the manifest thought! Instead a trail of thoughts gather in my tail, dragging on the forest floor of my imagination.
'Sea Of Mind' 50cm x 112cm - €1,500 - Unframed Available from Artist
In this sea of mind matter, parts detaching themselves from the embryonic form that is undergoing the change of shedding parts. Movement from the ocean caries the newly freed parts to where they are needed, gives the sense of motion in constant presence…The waters are just a little darker now but the essence of presence remains bright on the dark sea. So it shows me that pain is both unavoidable and intensely beautiful in a visual sense.
The long days are here again, there is a bite to the air and my senses are cleansed by the crisp morning. The mist that hangs low over the fields caught by the rising sun is truly a magnificent sight. One cannot help but think of our myths and legends of the Sidhe in the mist, on the ground and in the sky. Ireland is so familiar to me, the smell of the ocean and the feel of the land under foot. I have known people who carry a handful of earth with them as they travel, but we are a whole planet and the natural spirits that are so familiar to us travel on the wind. Their familiar places unrecognized seem so exotic, though they are surely prehistoric.
There is a sameness that has prevailed in nature on my travels, those who walk and scurry upon her may differ but the rhythm remains in tune, familiar like a heart beat. Though my travels have been limited I have been amazed at how at home I have felt and how familiar these new places are…Maybe it is some kind of genetic memory that dwells in the soul…And oh my how is sings when in the presence of mist and mountain.
When I saw this photograph my conscious mind illuminated flashes of travel…The obsidian I bought from the old trading station just outside Yosemite National park. It is incredible how the climate changes as you drive up and in, this place that smells of red wood trees and sleeping bears. This ‘ half dome above clouds, Yosemite ‘ had me nestling in the cracks just above the clouds. It holds magnificent detail, I can almost see my own tiny form amongst the trees. The original photo holds a superb amount of detail, it is hand printed on silver gelatin, 2010. To view a better image go to the source…www.rafal.net
Bealtaine is upon us, her passion on the wind and in the sunshine that illuminates all these thorns in my hands. Digging away at the memories of this life, a cycle returning to spill the essence of desire on the stones again. Each thing quivering with a desire to be more of itself. Truth buried like the thorns in my hands, present yet covered. I can feel a journey beginning to whisper with more urgency, somehow closer to a truth that I must uncover.
The hope of resolution and growth is more than I have dared to think about in a while. A way to break back into the flow, through my own barricades. With so much positive force present in the cycle it is simply a matter of doing. To enter the great hall once again for the tango of the soul…pure instinct is the only way with which to dance this dance.
Naomi Brosnan 