JOIN

acrylic, thread, and California Sycamore (Platanus racemosa) leaves on canvas

detail

The word join is defined as "to link or connect" by many dictionaries.  When I think of the word join, I think of people joining hands, or two or more different things joining together to form one entity.  Joining something together can be natural or forced.  This very experimental piece attempts to join together leaves of the same species in a way that appears natural, but is in fact forced.

When observing a moving body of water such as a river or creek, one often notices the current carries with it bits and pieces of living debris.  Often, the leaves moving down the river appear to stop and connect to other leaves, making a singular journey amongst its fellow leaves down the river, from one place to another.  Although figurative, I believe this to be applicable to life as well; when we are figuratively traveling down the river of our lives, many other people (just like leaves) join us on our journey.  They stitch together their lives to our own and vice versa.  Sometimes these stitches are more pronounced, while other times, they are barely noticeable.  Oftentimes, it is the smallest stitches between us and another person that make the biggest impact on our personal journeys and lives.  When these people leave our lives, impressions of their stitches are often left behind, which can cause us pain for the loss of the stitch itself.  We long to be joined together again.

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
"Separation" by W.S. Merwin

GATHER

mixed media on watercolor paper

Gather is one of my favorite words.  It is defined as "to come together," "to bring together and take in from scattered places or sources," and "to bring together different sources into one group or place."  To me, to gather means to come together as one entity to share and to experience; we shed our differences in order to share our similarities, and it is these similarities that bring us together in the first place.

When I think of the word gather, I think not only of people, but also of materials: particularly flowers.  I love gathering flowers into a bouquet, especially when they are all different from each other, which I find very pleasing to the eye.  Differences can often form a harmonious whole when gathered together.  Often, things cannot stand as well alone, but are a crucial part of a whole.

Apart from flowers, when people are brought together, they come into physical and/or conversational contact with each other, which allows them to appreciate one another.  Gathering with someone new allows new relationships and realization of similarities to build.  Often the first time one gathers with another person, there is a thrill from the newness of the gathering, and these gatherings can often produce joy.

Some inspiration was taken from the poem "once like a spark" by E.E. Cummings:

(once like a spark)

if strangers meet

life begins-

not poor not rich

(only aware)

kind neither

nor cruel

(only complete)

i not not you

not possible;

only truthful

-truthfully,once

if strangers (who 

deep our most are

selves) touch:

forever

(and so to dark)

APPROACH (NEAR)

acrylic on canvas paper

The definition of the word approach contains the word near: it is often defined as "to come nearer and nearer to something in the distance."  Thus, the word near is almost synonymous with approach, and is often defined as "to come closer."  To me, these words together mean to come closer to reaching a destination.  This could be a physical or figurative destination that could have significant or insignificant impact on a person.  When a person approaches something, they come ever closer to that which they are attempting to reach.  There is often an aura of mystery and expectation for what is to come.

In terms of these two words, a particular figure of speech springs to mind: a light at the end of the tunnel.  Essentially, everything we pursue, everything we approach and come nearer to, is a light at the end of the tunnel.  When one perseveres, keeps walking physically and figuratively in the right direction towards a destination, a person is coming ever closer to "the light at the end of the tunnel."  This light at the end of the tunnel is often a great relief to the person pursuing it; it is often a difficult and strenuous journey to this light, and the light provides a sense of escape, success, and respite.

This light at the end of the tunnel is what each of us searches for throughout our whole life.  To me, this light symbolizes the search for and achievement of happiness.  Although all physical and figurative destinations that we approach and come nearer to may stand alone from this ultimate pursuit of happiness, everything leads to this light at the end of the tunnel, and are essentially steps along the way towards this ultimate destination.

Time is of course the prime mode of measurement when it comes to approaching the end of the tunnel.  Our mortality and the shortness of the time we have becomes more and more apparent on our personal journeys.  Death is of course inevitable.  But it is the journey of life itself that holds so much brevity.  Despite all of our struggles, the simple joys that lead us along the tunnel to its end are what make life worthwhile.

In his poem, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot writes figuratively and symbolically of the journey of life.  He reminds us of our struggle with time, aging, and the ultimate destination of death, but also of the joys and memories that we experience in our lives.  The symbolism in his writing is beautiful, visible, and tangible.  The journey of J. Alfred Prufrock is essentially a tunnel towards an ultimate light.

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats         5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go         35 Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40 (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare         45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60   And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress         65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin? .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85 And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,         90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95 If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;   That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,         100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   “That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all.” .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .         110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use,         115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old …         120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.         125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

TOUCH

white pastel and dandelion (Taraxacum officinal) on tan-toned paper

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines the word touch as "to be in contact with (something)."  When I hear (and see) the word touch, I think of a caress, and what it means to be touched softly by another person.  A caress is a soft, loving, affectionate, tender, kind, gentle touch, which displays fondness, and even love, for another person in a haptic way.

Many human beings constantly crave the touch of another person; this touch is essentially a physical as well as a spiritual caress.  Craving affection is part of the human condition and displays a sensitive nature.  Although wanting to see someone (either physically or virtually) is often the cornerstone of a relationship of any kind, touch is, in fact, the true essence.  Seeing someone will never fully equate to the effect of being able to touch someone: hugging your brother after seeing him for the first time in weeks, embracing and kissing a lover, holding the hand of a child, being stroked on the head by your mother,  or even petting the fur of a dear pet are feelings that we cannot achieve merely by looking at them.  We itch and crave and long for the touch of those we love, and this touch is often a caress that evokes all of the feelings we have for this person, animal, or thing.  Even the feeling of the soft pods of a dandelion across the cheek or the wind blowing around and across the body can bring about such pleasant sensations to the skin.  Touch has the power to bring to us a sense of fulfillment and profound satisfaction.

In his poem, Song of Myself, Walt Whitman talks of touch as something universal.  What is so intriguing about touch is that it is ephemeral, which Whitman strongly laments in the following excerpts.  What makes touch so beautiful is its temporary nature: we crave it so much, yet its duration is short.  Because touch is so short-lived, we crave it all the more.  However, because the ephemeral nature of a touch is so profound, the memory of the touch is essentially eternal.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
[...]
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
[...]
I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand.
Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself,
[...]
Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?
[...]
All truths wait in all things,
They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,
They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,
The insignificant is as big to me as any,
(What is less or more than a touch?)