As a California kid, the great outdoors was certainly a vast playground but the scrap-paper and pencil is where the lacklustre became the blockbuster. One’s own inner-tainment burns bright when the creative lamp is lit by boredom and the gears of imagination churn the mind to guide the pen which does the hands bidding.
Nevertheless, in high school drawing gave way to photography. Cinematography overtook all hobbies by junior college. Further on, gardening and composing intimate acoustic songs about fresh farm produce prevailed for many years, and i thought all previous pastimes were purely bygones. However, one droll damp day in Sweden i found myself standing before an imposingly large and old cathedral. With pen and crumpled paper in pocket (and an inkling of ink-based inspiration returning) i sketched that stone relic.
My casual disport revolved in the simplest way possible to the most expressive form available. Falling back like a primal caveman 33,000 years ago to the beginning of it all: hand, ink, surface. With a purposeful pulse of eclectic curiosity that results when zen-tangled extrapolations are fleshed out through esoteric mediums.
I cannot think of anything more fulfilling than a whole day lost in the deep forms of the plane-world. Developing darkroom negatives does not compare to the unfolding of a single shape into endless variations. The satisfaction of editing a short film is easily dwarfed by the pleasure of filling the analog void with primordial wabi-sabi landscapes. Permaculture’s dirt and sweat certainly is a worthy pursuit but still needs more colours; more sweet shapes; more strange blends of symbols and symmetries! And more organic arrangements of far-out composites derived from the non-local mind’s production crew. The fresh zest of those fine lines all coming together is like the contours of some spectral topography in which the eyes do the eating and the soul is digesting.
These modern mandalas encompass the epitome of the odd profundity that i see as the perpetual human struggle between innate animalism and the curséd consciousness that ripples and rides the tides of a dynamic flux foaming from the two . . . like yin and yang waves smashing together. This is the paradox i enjoy most and wish to capture in each art piece: the literal paradox of “theozoic” or, the divine ways (theo) of such earthly animals (zoic).
Nothing is simple. And neither can this brief biography be, for the Swedish cathedral harkens back to Hermann Hesses’s story of Steppenwolf wherein to have said anything about myself and not allude to the world from which much influence comes, is to ignore the obvious – an individual is like a cathedral window made of various lead, glass and chemical components to form a final grand-mosaic which looks down to identify itself as the spectral array of colours playing on the floorplan below. However, the external light is not the mosaic, nor is it its inner refractions – just as a individual is neither the additional multitude of worldly influences (the sunrays) nor the subterranean depths of our ego (the coloured shadows). This organism is just a sentimental collection of innumerable manifestations illuminated by rebounding influences casting a coagulated collage of something greater than the hazy whole of our sub-psyche.
And beyond the aether of mind springs the final wildcard of influences: inspiration. Like a secret synthesis silently slipping in from nowhere. In my practice it becomes a deliberate daydream wherein, like childhood, the paper today still gladly receives the absurd abstractions flooding from the formless space down into the temporarily static medium called “the final product” or, Möntique Mandalas. And with normality as a close enemy, the curious horizon is a wonderfully uncharted temptation. That mysteriously distant promise is fair game for an honest life-long chase.
Yes, nothing is simple. So heretofore and now in the great year 2558 B.E. of our lofty Lord (year 2015 for you Anglophiles) the non-simplistic style of Theozoic has publicly smashed a fine bottle of champagne on the haughty proverbial cruise-ship called digital media and aloft it sloging’ly sails into the omnipotent winds of this warped and woven world-wide-web.
Stay zen my friends,
and may the Tao be with you,