tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978765418462300172024-02-02T16:23:48.572-08:00Dawn Patel ArtPaintings and thoughts on painting by Dawn PatelDawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-65540992203289222492019-12-15T05:31:00.001-08:002019-12-15T05:31:14.477-08:00MOVED<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I have consolidated my blog, website and art and clothing portfolios to my website </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://brilliantstranger.com/">https://brilliantstranger.com</a></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Thank you for reading! </span></b></div>
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-89853927461051344192018-12-10T08:14:00.002-08:002018-12-13T04:38:05.274-08:00The Cloak Wants to be PerformedThis is the Cloak I began early this year, at that time I was calling it "Cape." I went to an artist's residency in Mexico with the intention of making a fiber cocoon, in which to perform my embodiment process. What I ended up making was a wearable piece that must be performed to fulfill its purpose, as the testimony that it is.<br />
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As of now I have publicly perfomed the Cloak three times. It could be said the Cloak has performed itself through me. <br />
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Here is the latest performance, done with a very small group in Egg Harbor, WI. The final piece lasted over 2 hours. <br />
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A few video segments...<br />
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In this segment I explain how the Cloak came to be...</div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCWWfkBDfcSp1GdYIikxHQXA" target="_blank">Visit my YOUTUBE channel here </a></div>
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Before that performance I did a livestream performance with the Cloak, which involved a reading of "The Ship of Skeletons."</div>
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And finally, the first performance, which took place in Mexico, at the Zocalo in Puebla. </div>
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It has become evident to me that the Cloak is a garment of initiation, and being an initiatic process, the Cloak is changing as I change. The entire experience is metamorphic, being documented as a living testimony to the experience of becoming through change in the time and the world I live in.</div>
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More information about the residency <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/368070/in-mexico-time-is-not-money-a-residency-pushes-artists-to-confront-difference-and-colonialism/" target="_blank">ARQUETOPIA</a></div>
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<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-13918569042540937362018-10-15T11:26:00.006-07:002018-12-10T08:15:22.612-08:00The Ship of Skeletons<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 22px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
This is the story of two initiations, one initiation into a World that has been created and decided by Fear, and one initiation into a Future that has Yet to be Created.</div>
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Once, and once, and once again [within a time existing side by side with many other times] there was a child. This child was a girl to the world, but she was not yet known to herself as that. She could have been anything, because, in fact, she knew herself as everything before her. She did not yet know the world that separates every thing from another, with lines and words and definitions. She was not yet in that world, nor was it in her. Her world floated in and through spectrums of color and light and choral harmonies, becoming, revealing, filling. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cape</td></tr>
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One day the girl’s father gathered his family, with news of a journey. It was time to travel to a New World. In order to get to this New World, the family would take a long journey together, on an enormous passenger ship. The ship had many levels with even more hallways, and those hallways had even more rooms. The ship also had a ship doctor, and when the child saw this man the hair on the back of her neck stood up and sent a cold wave spiraling through her spine. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close up - Ancestry Cloth</td></tr>
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The girl and her family had boarded the ship, and they sailed farther and farther from the shore she had always known. The hallways and rooms in the ship became darker and darker. The child felt confused and lost, with no horizon to orientate herself to. It seemed as if the ship moved furiously in no direction, towards nothing. It seemed to the girl as if she could travel up flights of stairs and through long hallways for hours and never reach the main deck. In time, her eyes acclimated to the darkness, and in the darkness she hid. It was from this hiding place she spotted the ship doctor talking to her father and her mother. He told her parents that each family member would require a special surgery before entering the New World. One by one the girl child watched her family members disappear into the doctor’s quarters. First her father went in, the door closed and she could no longer hear nor see anything that was happening inside. When he at last reappeared from the operating room, the child covered her mouth and screamed. It was a scream only she could hear inside of her own head. Her father was now a skeleton, walking and talking as if nothing had changed, except he had no flesh, no hair, no eyes. The girl remained in her hiding place as her mother disappeared and then, hours later, reappeared as a skeleton. When the doctor left his room to find her brother, the girl ran down the halls of the ship, calling and crying to her brother, to warn him of the doctor’s true intent. But the only one who heard her cries was the doctor, so she ran and hid. This time she hid underneath the operating table. From there, she thought, she could warn her brother. But her fear had taken her voice, and all she could do was curl her body tightly into itself and listen to the sound of a knife cutting and cutting and cutting into flesh.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Film Still - Ancestry Cloth Performance </td></tr>
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The child knew now that she would never be able to come out from under that table without also losing her flesh and her eyes and her lips and her skin. From her heart she was still calling out warnings to her loved ones, but no one could hear her heart. The only sounds to be heard on the ship were the sounds of rattling bones. She huddled under the table for what seemed like days, and then weeks. The doctor stormed up and down the halls of the ship, opening and slamming doors, calling out her name.</div>
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Now the child had a problem. She knew she could not stay under that table forever if she were to be reunited with her family. She longed for her family more than she feared the doctor, but she loved her own body as she loved the world. So she did the only thing she could in these circumstances. She divided herself into two. In order to camouflage herself she took pieces of everything before her and stitched them into a cape. She took a sliver of wood from the operating table, a scrap of curtain, a torn page from the ship’s log, silk from the dress of a wealthy passenger, a feather from a gull, a leather luggage tag, rope from the deck, drops of rain, salt from the ocean, sand, floor dust, star dust and her own breath, and she stitched and stitched and stitched these things to her self and made a Cloak of Everything in which to camouflage herself. When she divided herself into two her knowing self stayed under the Cloak of Everything and she sent away the un-knowing self. Her un-knowing self ran out of the room with arms stretched wide open, crying like a baby, for her family. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Film Still - Ancestry Cloth Performance</td></tr>
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Now the man known as the doctor was no longer pretending to be a healer. He had become so furious in his search for the child all of his pretenses had fallen away and he was indeed a terrifying butcher. In his rage he grabbed the un-knowing girl and her surgery was the most brutal of all. He administered no gas, nor anesthesia, and he did not sterilize his tools. The pain of the butchery caused the girl on the operating table to pass out from shock and forget everything. From under the table her knowing self could hear the sounds of her own surgery, and she pulled the cape over her head and covered her ears. That was the last she ever heard of her other half, who left the ship as a skeleton and reunited with her family. </div>
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The girl in the cape stayed under the table, frozen with fear. There she remained, for years and years, growing from child to adolescent to woman. At night she ventured out from the doctor’s room and crept into the kitchen to eat what she could without arousing suspicion. She climbed up the mast of the ship and watched the waves of the ocean and the light of the moon and she called for her other half with a howl that sounded, to the sailors and passengers, like a powerful and haunting ocean wind. And every day, just before the dawn, she climbed back down and returned under the operating table where she huddled under the cape that camouflaged her and protected her ears from the screams and the cutting and the rattling of bones. But the cape heard it all and became very very heavy. The cape continued to stitch the world into itself and every sound and every sight became its memory. And the cape kept its memory in safe keeping until the time would come for the knowing self to call from the ship’s mast and be heard by her un-knowing self.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Film Still - Ancestry Cloth Performance</td></tr>
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The girl who had reunited with her family and entered the New World had a parallel life that looked very different but felt very much the same. She longed for love with a sense of fear and distance that troubled everyone around her. She would look in the mirror at night and spit at her reflection. She cut into her flesh in order to know it as real. She ate the feasts around her and vomited them up. She saw her life ending even as it had just begun. She wondered why she was so drawn to dark hallways and locked doors, but went into them nonetheless. She could see in the dark, but when she told of what she had seen she was told she was mistaken. In her mistakenness she looked for love in the world. But the world was also torn from itself, and as it passed before her it showed itself as nothing but fragments. She reached for the torn fragments and collected them. She began to stitch them together. As she stitched, she felt a strange breeze across her face. She heard the sound of the wailing of the sea, she heard choral harmonies and she saw spectrums of light dancing before her closed eyes. So she stitched and stitched, with what seemed like madness, driven from the realm of the unknown, or the yet to be known, or the yet to be remembered. The fragments of the world became a cape, and she stitched more and more fragments into the cape. The X-ray of her broken finger, a mirage of a faraway land, computer cables, her great grandmothers dress. Dust from the room, dust from the stars, her tears, the hair of a newborn baby and a photograph from another time. Cells and molecules so small they entered through the eye of her needle. Memories and dreams so illusive they entered the cape while she was sleeping. All of the opportunities for healing entered the cape, whether she recognized them or not. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from Performance of Dissimilation, Puebla Mexico<br />
Photo courtesy of Arquetopia</td></tr>
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One day the cape was finished. By this time the girl was a woman with children of her own. A voice rose from the cape. The voice calmly instructed the woman, “Enter Me.” The woman put the cape over her head and it covered her body, and all fear disappeared. At that moment all the longing was fulfilled, and not in the way all the separate fragments had told her it would be. The love she had longed for not something outside of her, it was all she had ever been. At that moment she saw herself in the mirror and knew the one looking back. At that moment she embraced her own body and it laughed out loud and cried in relief. At that moment all that had been was no longer as it had been, and all that could be was to be anew. At that moment the ending became the beginning. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close up - Ancestry Cloth<br />
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This is the beginning of the Initiation of Dissimilation, where the structures are taken down and released. Some things will be kept, some things will be released and all things will be transformed in the process. We are no longer captives to a story that is not our own, each of us has a story, and no one story is more or less than another. Each one of us makes the fabric of the multiverse the rich and powerful fabric that it is, and it is unable able to exist with one story missing.</div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-33519059231008467562017-04-15T17:42:00.000-07:002017-04-16T07:30:31.867-07:00Reflecting on Art as it Reflects Us.<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
“Art is a mirror to nature.” Shakespeare</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoqUie3RdLn2fPoKagyEa-pBnf0qBXDbtQ_ntEjR5pmBiwwcxwLrav9_dS8PvddRhCMe6RSCjvx2J1Md4kSIwSQ4soq08h5rHDeB08Db8LKoPtWNnJwm28DZnIoiiUjF80vCOZKBsHoaA/s1600/HouseInTheWoods+sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoqUie3RdLn2fPoKagyEa-pBnf0qBXDbtQ_ntEjR5pmBiwwcxwLrav9_dS8PvddRhCMe6RSCjvx2J1Md4kSIwSQ4soq08h5rHDeB08Db8LKoPtWNnJwm28DZnIoiiUjF80vCOZKBsHoaA/s320/HouseInTheWoods+sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">House in the Woods 1989</td></tr>
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“Art is not a mirror held up to reality</div>
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but a hammer with which to shape it.” Bertolt Brecht</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gulf Stream 1995</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“In a decaying society, art, if it is truthful, must also reflect decay. And unless it wants to break faith with its social function, art must show the world as changeable. And help to change it.” Ernst Fischer</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watch Man 1997</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“My art is the knife the tears through the surface of reality; </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;">then it becomes the needle and thread that stitches it back together.” Dawn Patel</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancestor Dress 2016 photo credit: bloomphotographybykara<br />
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-57426060221288770412017-03-20T05:49:00.000-07:002017-03-20T18:00:25.096-07:00Cartography of the Unseen World<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;">
I woke up this morning thinking two things. </div>
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1. I really should start working on an artist’s statement for “I Am Usha.”</div>
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2. I am at an age where many people have reached the top of their field.</div>
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And then, as I so often like to do, I completely deconstructed both of those concepts until I was staring at scattered piles of assumptions, ready to be reassembled into something that resonates with my frequencies.</div>
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Let’s start with number 2. What an interesting phrase. Is the field on a hill? Or has the person who has reached the top, like Yertle the Turtle, merely piled the other less fortunate, less ambitious, and less opportunistic into a mountain onto which to climb? The mere concept of a winner relies on the existence of a loser, or many losers. The more losers, the higher the winner rises. </div>
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Some people will tell you this is the way of the world. Others will insist it is human nature. And still others will look toward nature itself as a justification for the competition model of human behavior… law of the jungle, survival of the fittest. One can look at world history and into nature to find a certain logic to this theory and stop looking further. This is a narrow search, the place where many have chosen to remain, having found the answer they were seeking. </div>
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Or… one can widen the search. One can search for and discover the history and the anthropology and the systems that wait patiently, just outside of the mainstream. There are answers that you will never find unless you ask more questions. There are voices you can’t hear unless you get very very quiet. You have to be listening for something you’ve never heard before, something which at first might sound like a hallucination, or look like a mirage. The unfamiliar always enters this way, always finding a way in. Let your senses adjust and stay with it. This is how we widen the search.</div>
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I have spent my life wandering through fields. I can often be found on the edges, where the well trodden paths mark the way, reminding me I’m not the only one wandering. I look down and see the coyote track, the deer track and the evidence of a system in flux, always striking a balance. I have wandered through many fields, some lush with life and some deadened with chemicals and overuse. Some in dormancy and some in their prime. Witnessing the nature of fields from the ground has taught me many things, things I never would have understood if I insisted on climbing to a pinnacle. </div>
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“I Am Usha” is the Cartography of the Unseen World, always witnessed in fleeting glimpses, wandering low along the edges. Every piece of art is created as a marker along a path, a path that runs parallel to the deer paths on the edges of the fields, in a world where the human eye does not adjust to the wavelengths of light. One sees with the heart, discovering a new form of communication within the body that has been patiently waiting to be awoken. When I am creating from this place, a direct line from my heart to my hand guides me. With great trust and an even greater love for the process, I make art. I leave my own prints in the soil of consciousness, not to rise or fall in the drama of the world, but to mark my path in this parallel place. </div>
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“Usha” is no more than a name, my name in my Ancestors’ language. It is simply “Dawn.” A name for transition, for the darkest time at the moment before light. In this strange moment of flux, one sees with the heart what the eyes cannot decipher. After my own personal transition from grief and detachment to acceptance and forgiveness, I have the strength and confidence to claim my name. I claim it as my own, if only to offer it as my gift, a Gift of a Map for the Travelers to Come. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFx2oIIM4viKGfufjXfVFd80ToeIcrlxeyoK31e-rzgYfMuX6WCxv6m5pF6qbRfy7rB1wHCsRhsf5nCxRrRmiHet1rsBLkOrXFl8RsWTY49mJvjovQHE6xt-iOrkcxub03W5n2YK3hME1A/s1600/skeleton+tree+dance+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFx2oIIM4viKGfufjXfVFd80ToeIcrlxeyoK31e-rzgYfMuX6WCxv6m5pF6qbRfy7rB1wHCsRhsf5nCxRrRmiHet1rsBLkOrXFl8RsWTY49mJvjovQHE6xt-iOrkcxub03W5n2YK3hME1A/s320/skeleton+tree+dance+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV16yyPULq5pDApcJ-MnJ4hYZzVUitF5DLpp8OOphJOVxYtMYalA49JM3DbkHwlBojaC17Gvwy1RIOaXQ3n55eNIqdPpzfWR8F4W9x9M9tnHVs1q6rC4-ToaQ08Np8dfbfKCsh8wPdU5X/s1600/skeleton+tree+dance+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV16yyPULq5pDApcJ-MnJ4hYZzVUitF5DLpp8OOphJOVxYtMYalA49JM3DbkHwlBojaC17Gvwy1RIOaXQ3n55eNIqdPpzfWR8F4W9x9M9tnHVs1q6rC4-ToaQ08Np8dfbfKCsh8wPdU5X/s320/skeleton+tree+dance+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-xxL_D_PD1dDXDYY72v_z4L_QpwUZ8VudqMOaMbPsqz1hsGvr3l3iQecDmkMrNy2bUQnbFrqVvbrc9mqiVaWaOBHjJHoc9ARo4wCJFJcUZCp21Wwo5CIrZ9waO0jP3m7y8N-9uX3A7DI/s1600/skeleton+tree+dance+6x6+print+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-xxL_D_PD1dDXDYY72v_z4L_QpwUZ8VudqMOaMbPsqz1hsGvr3l3iQecDmkMrNy2bUQnbFrqVvbrc9mqiVaWaOBHjJHoc9ARo4wCJFJcUZCp21Wwo5CIrZ9waO0jP3m7y8N-9uX3A7DI/s320/skeleton+tree+dance+6x6+print+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Video Stills from "Skeleton Tree Dance" Jan 2017</td></tr>
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-18188112289715283522017-03-11T18:15:00.001-08:002017-03-11T18:33:55.135-08:00Break (it) Down<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran</div>
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And a woman spoke, saying Tell us of Pain.</div>
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And he said:</div>
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Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.</div>
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Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.</div>
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And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;</div>
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And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over the fields.</div>
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And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.</div>
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Much of your pain is self-chosen,</div>
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It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.</div>
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Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:</div>
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For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseeen’</div>
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And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mariposa 1994</td></tr>
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I have been thinking about the tension of opposites. Engaging with the world in a time of turmoil has flung me into the tension of opposites. I am beginning to see how this experience, if not consciously broken down, leads to a breakdown. The last time I experienced it I gave into the grief for a very long time. This time I am stepping back from the world when needed, for self care and reflection. Sometimes I have to get to the point of spinning my wheels (and flailing my arms) before I realize it is time to step back. Painting has a great deal to do with stepping back, for my approach to creative work includes hours spent in meditation, gathering information, shifting and understanding. The painting is only the tangible record of it. Painting is the material world, the body of work. The rest is spirit. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6UjtBzQYBWNMa4qctifNwylDr2OrFozlxKqdnBkI305IFyzNzeFfLaeMG_d7fzNxOR3mSRKCzqWo2Il8x8At-ZpFuquAAw5OaPTyaAaWSQ6Ju4yy_1ckAjLplBCLfKWbyzk8QwfpS_az/s1600/2340+Patel079+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6UjtBzQYBWNMa4qctifNwylDr2OrFozlxKqdnBkI305IFyzNzeFfLaeMG_d7fzNxOR3mSRKCzqWo2Il8x8At-ZpFuquAAw5OaPTyaAaWSQ6Ju4yy_1ckAjLplBCLfKWbyzk8QwfpS_az/s400/2340+Patel079+copy.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journey 1995</td></tr>
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Love for the world creates a desire to enter the world. That, and the realization that it is not possible to retreat from life. It follows you and pulls you back. The more “alone” you make yourself the more your senses adapt and hear the smallest heartbeat, the tiniest call. You feel the pulse of the world as acutely as if you were standing in the center of it. It has lead me to a very conscious decision to reconnect. One could say I picked a fine time. I know I am not the only one. This love can be so easily transformed into grief with the day to day experience of witnessing the world we love. My grief has turned into action, but that has thrown me into a world of activity that is also motivated by fear and anger. The fear, grief and anger are all so related they end up on the same team. My conditioned response is frustration, inarticulately communicated to friends and acquaintances… leading to more frustration, of course, and ultimately frustration with myself. </div>
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Jung’s theory on the tension of opposites concludes if one stays in the discomfort of this tension a third thing arises. A “quantum leap” of thinking and being, ultimately of consciousness. It cannot be predicted because it is new, born out of opposites. Try to force it would be like trying to determine the personality and destiny of your unborn child. Sometimes we have a “feeling” about these things, sometimes even visions. But in these bodies, in this world, we still have to wait and see. How can I remain with my love for the world and my grief without breaking in half. It seems only with the qualities of joy and hope, which are not always my natural states. For me joy and hope have to be worked at, earned through understanding. It is not just an intellectual understanding, it is a whole body and spirit experience, my definition of faith.</div>
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I go into the world and am pulled by the tensions. I act and react, often in ways I regret, and then return to my inner world where I can quietly break it down. This is a conscious act, brought about by the same conditions an emotional breakdown would be. I am approaching it these days as “beating it [a breakdown] to the punch.” Taken to the point of a breakdown, I am able to break down the opposites and see them more clearly. In this understanding I find myself in a more open and honest state, where trust, not in a determinist future, but in the vast universe of the present, can grow.</div>
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I found these older paintings of mine to be surprisingly effective for illustrating the tension of opposites that I am so aware of today. Something to revisit in my work this year.... Perhaps my paintings will see the third thing before my conscious mind can grasp it.</div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-78034475433867076752017-02-08T19:35:00.000-08:002017-02-08T19:44:50.540-08:00The Female Center<h1 style="border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I sometimes hear voices. I kept pretty quiet about that my entire life, because, well, I was afraid of being judged by minds that do not understand such things. T</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit;">his has been a month of letting go of fears... so that one's gone too.</span></h1>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the early morning hours I sometimes hear a voice, telling me one thing at a time, helping me understand. It's always been a fatherly voice, until yesterday. Yesterday the voice was female. It told me to Enter. </span></span></h1>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The words were "Put yourself inside of me." </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit;">(If you immediately thought about sex read the next paragraph. If not, you can skip it.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit;">The sexuality of the phrase, while undeniable, could easily become a distraction from the larger lesson of the words. Making female power centered on sex is a way of taking away female power, by limiting it to one dimension of human activity. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit;"> If we as a culture had a healthy relationship with feminine power, then the relationship between sexuality and all the other forces that drive us as humans would exist in harmony.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I reflected on the words I had heard, "Put yourself inside of me" until I finally decided to paint.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My first interpretation of the voice was that of the earth, the mother, the female.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fire inside, fire in the center. What to enter? The Center. It is in the entering that the understanding begins to unfold, through the feeling, through the energy, through the very act of entering.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We are at a time in history when we have so much to look back on and sift through. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">B</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ooks and knowledge excite me, offering so many paths of thought and exploration for the mind.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> But, in the end, I have to get out of my head for the clarity I need. The clarity that is needed for peace comes from calling my ancestors and finding my center. It comes from a place that </span>cannot<span style="font-family: inherit;"> be defined with words. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The knowing that comes from the mind and the knowing that comes from the heart's center do not need to be in competition. Coexisting, they work together, for we are in the world, as well as the spirit, at this time. This is the conflict I see around me, that of opposing poles. How does one shift that magnetic push of opposition into an alignment? By entering the center, where the forces no longer push or pull. Rather than split the atom, enter it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What my ancestors and spirit are telling me is to release fear. This happens by facing fears, not suppressing them or pushing them away. Looking at fear and then letting it go is the way through the anxiety of our time. It leads to a centered calm. Everything must change, in a profound and all encompassing way. That change is happening, and in order to adjust to the change, a strong and centered female energy is needed. And this is an energy that is misunderstood in a patriarchal world, where equality is often sought on male terms, and feminine power is still confined by those very terms. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The imbalance has been focused on male, light, linear thought, hierarchy and force. We are witnessing its final stages. It cannot be tamed, let alone fought , with more of its own . A receptive, dark, female energy encircles it and tames it, not with force but with unimaginable power. This happens on every level of human activity, from the most intimate to the most public, through personal relationships to political struggles. All we need to do is look to nature and spirit to bring our human world back into balance. Starting with, but not stopping at, ourselves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Female is reception. It is Yin. It is the stillness in the center of the storm. It is the heat from the center of the earth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That is w</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">here I enter. </span></div>
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-75883227061845041492017-01-05T07:54:00.002-08:002017-01-05T08:01:48.110-08:00i am ushaThe Dark. A natural and essential part of our existence. Not evil. Not inferior. Deep. Forceful. <br />
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Darkness is intense, and so widely misunderstood. Who has not used the word "darkness" to describe something ominous and threatening; when in truth it is simply the unknown. It takes a brave deconstruction, followed by an honest reconstruction, of language, culture and history to fully understand what darkness truly is. It takes conquering the fear of the unknown.<br />
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One thing I have had to admit to myself, in these times, is my own reluctance to go deep and wide. To be honest with myself and to keep Looking. Especially when it is hard to look, when what I see before me is greed and unimaginable cruelty. The Horror. Looking at the world with my eyes wide open and my heart wide open feels like a punch in the chest, leaving me breathless. I begin the year 2017 with the humble realization that I, too, have been hiding from my own intense darkness. </div>
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What I learned as a child:</div>
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What one sees in the dark will not be believed. </div>
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Turn on a light and it disappears. </div>
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What I learned as an adult:</div>
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Leave the seeds of your own imagination and intuition in the light of the bright sun. </div>
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They will shrivel and die. </div>
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For they need the cool damp soil, the long dark nights and rain.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPRTXGAmyAYFhc9RtcDNtvdD_o70PBJDRs3ZIIKodsqUvFVv6EPmdqvZc5U0AJZsn6mUtHVw86Qq84zeBNNfa5XOEPynI9-RjH3GXsSTi19_hfTScbgBqFAOOYrAz-9D0Wvli9wDWGXux/s1600/cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPRTXGAmyAYFhc9RtcDNtvdD_o70PBJDRs3ZIIKodsqUvFVv6EPmdqvZc5U0AJZsn6mUtHVw86Qq84zeBNNfa5XOEPynI9-RjH3GXsSTi19_hfTScbgBqFAOOYrAz-9D0Wvli9wDWGXux/s400/cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Finally, I not only understand darkness; I thrive in it. I am learning to see in it. I need to go into darkness to fully understand myself and the world. There I have found a deep connection with my ancestors. My ancestors are my connection with the unwritten past that I carry within, making them the seeds of compassion for myself and all life. </div>
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In the light of day we learn we are all one in the world, and we reach out to the sun. In the darkness we learn we are all one in the universe, and we germinate. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjLhFuWn7LcjHWgM8JiaQIH0jqePLIvGTQI7ML54ww4R7eAjQrpeuSjAM_yLKjnO7fW1ztQN1IJosEznkG29tMGp1p9lshLtbDj8VC0F2FODjdx7KkBqlRw8E75l2sXuxJitjn43IQxBCP/s1600/2340+Patel085+copy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjLhFuWn7LcjHWgM8JiaQIH0jqePLIvGTQI7ML54ww4R7eAjQrpeuSjAM_yLKjnO7fW1ztQN1IJosEznkG29tMGp1p9lshLtbDj8VC0F2FODjdx7KkBqlRw8E75l2sXuxJitjn43IQxBCP/s640/2340+Patel085+copy+2.jpg" width="486" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darkness is where seeds germinate.<br />
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My journey into this acceptance takes me into the mythology of my patrilineal ancestry and my Sanskrit name, Usha. Let me be clear - India is more than the land of chai tea and asanas, colorful goddess memes about enlightenment and little brown men in tree poses. That is the surface of India, the travel brochure ad, the guru's full page ad. I love my yoga classes and I appreciate the West's need for something to ease the imbalance in its own culture. I struggle at how often that leads to a narrow vision, the appropriation of only a slice of a monumentally complex culture, existing now in a country devastated and transformed by Neocolonialism. There are certainly many Westerners who consciously address this problem. And I respect the complexity of American life, being a part of it while I sometimes bristle at it. I have driven home frustrated from at least a few yoga classes, when, chatting after class, I have tried to explain my own experience of India. I lack the words as much as the culture I live in lacks the understanding. It is an impasse that has led me to create a world of art surrounding this name, Usha, and all it represents. You cannot embrace the shiny surface of India without swallowing the darkness that is as much hers. And this goes for all of spirituality, all of nature, all of this existence. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGDD4zLUQpJnAhrWWSr0iYeZd_H_7q7a8kzTqhmlX_stHdjMHBYlxhXJrmIBH_2oLEIyKHEicFjiK4-5LH-p69XXlrJKHo8GkWYtRbeATzmGl9WsI1QZTrR9a_bRFn488cOeuDf8LCKNk/s1600/2340+Patel077+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGDD4zLUQpJnAhrWWSr0iYeZd_H_7q7a8kzTqhmlX_stHdjMHBYlxhXJrmIBH_2oLEIyKHEicFjiK4-5LH-p69XXlrJKHo8GkWYtRbeATzmGl9WsI1QZTrR9a_bRFn488cOeuDf8LCKNk/s640/2340+Patel077+copy.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>
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Usha is also a character I have worked on in several stories. Often intensely personal work, I seldom felt comfortable having my stories be public. They are stories that reflect my most personal struggles, my relationship with my Indian father, my outsider status, my stubborn pride over an identity I fail to fully understand. Usha has been a protagonist in a private monologue. She journeys into darkness, giving me the courage to reveal these stories and the imagination to create new ones. In the dimming light of the Empire's Lies I feel the time has come.<br />
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I am one of many.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhPG-pSB6vqOKmiXy4uD7e-gD3TKcG74mdmTqGtW1F1R_AIrSw5WE1VLDMckLLOpRfyWlfbs6pRRlXAV34mt93W7fW8cQhD4ojofGvXjrfR9AO2LZiulP8-7aOUg8aHtHoTjT0IDxhqjG/s1600/IMG_7435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhPG-pSB6vqOKmiXy4uD7e-gD3TKcG74mdmTqGtW1F1R_AIrSw5WE1VLDMckLLOpRfyWlfbs6pRRlXAV34mt93W7fW8cQhD4ojofGvXjrfR9AO2LZiulP8-7aOUg8aHtHoTjT0IDxhqjG/s400/IMG_7435.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometime in the 70's: a day in the life of Usha. </td></tr>
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"I am Usha" is not about history and a retelling of ancient myths. There are piles of books for that. It is my personal discovery of an unknown lineage through the journey of visionary art making. It is my own solitary conversation with my ancestors when I wear my Sanskrit name. It is a change that occurs when you see your present self through the eyes of your cellular memory. It is more than a name, and more than an exploration of culture; in the end it is a search for meaning in the abyss. Implicit in the search is the release of old norms of thinking, a rejection of dogma, opinions and assumptions. What replaces these untruths does not reveal itself immediately and an uncomfortable darkness descends. Uncomfortable because it is the unknown, the one thing feared so deeply. But Darkness and Unknowing have become my closest confidants in this language of art I have developed in a lifetime.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5ymMQktYtgOdOLt2uOCggq740CH0FZk42AQZFWD_btkGjOQBoMTmmTpggkngiATUNPSs_ofnaWHtoyVOSWejny7MJtPB-7RI6N83cqF3VhAz1f1hb6bI548tc9pjqJEFkytV99skirgp/s1600/2340+Patel076+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5ymMQktYtgOdOLt2uOCggq740CH0FZk42AQZFWD_btkGjOQBoMTmmTpggkngiATUNPSs_ofnaWHtoyVOSWejny7MJtPB-7RI6N83cqF3VhAz1f1hb6bI548tc9pjqJEFkytV99skirgp/s640/2340+Patel076+copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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"I am Usha" is a journey into the mysterious understanding of the necessities of darkness that ultimately leads to the light of communicating and connecting with the world. Each of these cannot exist without the other, making me realize "I am Usha" is my way of joining the divided parts of myself as a mirror to the divided world I live in. It is my hope that this creative vision quest will unite past and present, illustrating the illuminating potential of darkness. In the end this is all I ask of my art. </div>
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Note: all paintings are my own, painted between 1994-1997.</div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-29840154803491656012016-12-25T13:30:00.000-08:002017-02-04T17:01:14.371-08:00Night Vision<div style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
In the earliest hours of morning our thoughts connect </div>
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two worlds. Dreams open doors into a fluid world. In daylight the thick shell of the world hides from </div>
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us from the truth we seek. </div>
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We forget the stars are still there. </div>
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This is my story of remembering. It is one of many, for when we are not forgetting, we are remembering. And each story tries to remember, but in the telling it falls short. So the Storyteller is born again.</div>
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In the middle of November I was not sleeping well. One particularly windy night I lay in bed, staring into the darkness and listening to the forest howl outside my window. As I drifted between waking and sleeping a vision began to form, one I did not welcome. I saw a darkness surround all beings, enveloping the earth. It was thick, a cloud of deep thick charcoal fog. I entered into it and saw with my heart its fullness. Suffering. So much suffering. It was not just suffering to come, it was suffering that had been and it was suffering that is. It was all existing in one place and one time. I saw it with my entire being and I lay in bed weeping.</div>
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It was 3 in the morning and I was sobbing, trying not to wake Dale. I lay there for an hour. All beings, humans, animals, trees and the earth itself all wept with me.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzGvC6KcAk_kTc4nZGJR-6zRc1oPgfJX45O8CI1swCgqy1cAIKT6kVerUr5QFZOaH4clLi-EEdNXnFNojurh0sJrRdVYSPmRBiTBsdpiutjiFDEVltVGGAth0drg34aNQHDUxGG6jeCTV/s1600/Woods+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzGvC6KcAk_kTc4nZGJR-6zRc1oPgfJX45O8CI1swCgqy1cAIKT6kVerUr5QFZOaH4clLi-EEdNXnFNojurh0sJrRdVYSPmRBiTBsdpiutjiFDEVltVGGAth0drg34aNQHDUxGG6jeCTV/s640/Woods+.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untitled Work in Progress</td></tr>
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This was a pretty dark place, even for me.</div>
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After an hour I knew I had to get out of bed and go into the woods. I woke Dale. He was concerned when he saw that I was crying. I told him. He said, “Take a flashlight.”</div>
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At first I didn’t turn on the flashlight. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I thought I could just step slowly and carefully, letting my vision adjust to this very dark night. It was a Wisconsin November. So there were dry brittle leaves everywhere, and, on a windy night like this, they tend to pile up. So, my first fright came when I stepped into a pile of leaves that wasn’t there the night before. My foot lifted the leaves, taken up by the wind, farther than I would have imagined. I was surrounded by the sound of rustling leaves and my pounding heart. In the blackness I stood frozen, hearing movement all around, and I decided I wasn’t so opposed to the flashlight after all.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCUH0W_1bN1mPk29yR76i0AE1yX6B08k4Qpbtb_njZ9XRe7nLsi_sEOmiwr5JFQwkbC5Lv10mwjyfYYFJ5CoPkaZIAbJqIv78fkmSEztNIOZBpNRX8X-ItCXKJYGN2zJHJTSM05G7dNa8/s1600/The+Wind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCUH0W_1bN1mPk29yR76i0AE1yX6B08k4Qpbtb_njZ9XRe7nLsi_sEOmiwr5JFQwkbC5Lv10mwjyfYYFJ5CoPkaZIAbJqIv78fkmSEztNIOZBpNRX8X-ItCXKJYGN2zJHJTSM05G7dNa8/s640/The+Wind.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wind</td></tr>
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At that point it occurred to me that I would rather see a creature of the night before stepping into its space, so the light stayed on as I carefully made my way to a special spot in the forest of pines. It is a place where a large tree has lain fallen for years, so much so that younger trees grow through it. Animals take shelter in it. Moss grows on it. I have always loved this spot. When I got there it took me awhile to find a comfortable seat. The woods feel ominous at night. I chose to have my back against a young tree, something to lean on, and it gave me a small sense of protection. </div>
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The wind was still blowing fitfully, shaking the trees and loosening their dead. Before turing off my flashlight I scanned my perimeter for potential Widow Makers, or in this case Widower Makers. Then, with a touch of my thumb, total darkness.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNhzjkFoD33uADA0gV9ZQ9cQXyloSbHRzQjAvM5ISZgAGQoNRQYk7hYWdAT2GLjhrw_aMpwtZycjDELi8elYUtXjxfLD9CzinjrjccEul5cTQ0LAxTVJFFkRcrjY6o2iJQe49GtJGYfVI/s1600/HouseInTheWoods+small+file.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNhzjkFoD33uADA0gV9ZQ9cQXyloSbHRzQjAvM5ISZgAGQoNRQYk7hYWdAT2GLjhrw_aMpwtZycjDELi8elYUtXjxfLD9CzinjrjccEul5cTQ0LAxTVJFFkRcrjY6o2iJQe49GtJGYfVI/s640/HouseInTheWoods+small+file.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">House of the Woods</td></tr>
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Oh how hard it was to keep that light off. A breaking branch a few feet from me was enough to make me freeze. For what seemed like hours, but was more likely 30 minutes, I sat frozen. My eyes were wide open, but, at first, I saw nothing. Slowly I began to see. There seemed to be a substance to the air, as if every single molecule was coming out of hiding. The air, the trees, the leaves and I were all tiny dots vibrating in and out of my sight. Looking up I saw a falling star. In this light the trees are the negative space, and the distant stars are the positive space. For a moment I was neither light nor dark, I was only perception, as everything around me changed from one to the other.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBl-af3kXQm0bOM3HC8F2fcHVe3xEEBcjqcrrUkZaU6-5irSk8v55j8yQ36eku6KvXZjycfpsjjNEQ4yLy2H-qo891fL2NYXGwo0NO6yLXUhJ6kONWu1HnbdQwlFhbyjFgo838lZ5nx9B8/s1600/Molecules.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBl-af3kXQm0bOM3HC8F2fcHVe3xEEBcjqcrrUkZaU6-5irSk8v55j8yQ36eku6KvXZjycfpsjjNEQ4yLy2H-qo891fL2NYXGwo0NO6yLXUhJ6kONWu1HnbdQwlFhbyjFgo838lZ5nx9B8/s640/Molecules.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Molecules</td></tr>
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For an hour at least my thoughts bounced back and forth between wonder and terror. Of course I could calmly remind myself the biggest danger that night was a coyote. But a noisy rustle in the black space around me made me imagine more. Believe it or not, this was the first moment I recognized a connection between my choice to sit in the woods and the story of Siddhartha. As the account of his becoming the Buddha is told, Siddhartha despaired at the suffering in the world. His search for an answer led him to sit under a Bodhi tree, meditating outdoors for seven days and seven nights. My 2 hours in the cold on a fallen tree paled in comparison to his 168 hours. I laughed at all the times I sat on a comfortable cushion in my heated home to meditate. Nature is essential to awakening us to this life, and we humans so often hide from it. In a terrible separation from the earth I had forgotten the lessons it has to teach me. In my darkest moment, I remembered, and I stepped outside. To be inside of our deepest consciousness we have to be outside in the Natural World, not inside of the Manmade World. To the degree to which we the Modern Humans have violently torn ourselves from our connection to nature, we have suffered.</div>
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I swear I remember there being a moment in the story of enlightenment where a giant cat approaches Siddhartha. So, I thought, maybe I needn’t be quite so fearful. A lion or tiger would be bad. Back to fear. Forgetting.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZq3ZQXhx9bL8tsORszLrhnj8Q-HNj2XBSKJLa3b0Nop-EmE2StszGHJfQQfMprQlH4XOsxsnCCn4Y_fduVqaOuMcwHGK5sMJpsQkhRwOL7HnnumiJLgC-tocQl1pEuRPpACeb9ZgzubwM/s1600/Intermediary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZq3ZQXhx9bL8tsORszLrhnj8Q-HNj2XBSKJLa3b0Nop-EmE2StszGHJfQQfMprQlH4XOsxsnCCn4Y_fduVqaOuMcwHGK5sMJpsQkhRwOL7HnnumiJLgC-tocQl1pEuRPpACeb9ZgzubwM/s640/Intermediary.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deep Sleeper - Intermediary</td></tr>
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Of course the point wasn’t Lions and Tigers and Bears. We do have occasional bears and wolves and even the rare cougar sighting in this part of the State. I knew there was a reason I was out there in the cold and it wasn’t to try to guess which wild beast would eat me for dinner. I could fear the wind, the animals, even the possibility of a human in the woods, probably most dangerous of all. I had to let it all go. The most frightening part of being alone in the darkness in the woods was also the most awakening. Remembering. </div>
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I began to look each fear squarely in its face and release it. I soon found myself remembering them all, from paralyzing terrors to the less obvious ones. The ones that linger for days, muted and pale but persistent in their nagging. People who had frightened me, I saw their fear. People that had hurt me, I saw their pain. People I had frightened and people I had hurt, I saw my blindness. I saw fear and pain passed on from parent to child, from master to slave, from teacher to student. Acts of violence replacing the wisdom of old with inherited pain and terror. Victim becomes perpetrator and the lamb becomes the hungry beast at the door. There was no bad, no good, no dark, no light. Only attaching and letting go. With each passing fear I felt an infinite lightness that cannot be expressed with words, although LOVE is a good one to try. This was a special kind of night vision. Seeing through the dark. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artic Spirits</td></tr>
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It was at this point I realized the woods were becoming more and more visible in the earliest light of the day. As I had passed through the darkest hour of the morning I had seen through at least some of my blindness. As the trees became solid, once again I could connect each sound with its source. I looked up at the sky. Not a single star in my sight. I would have to go on memory. Remembering. I got up, a little stiff, and walked toward the house. I would put on some coffee and try to talk about this. The things the darkness commands us to know. Fears are only passing moments, but we give them strength when we try to suppress them. In their suppression they are squeezed and wiggled into our souls and the passing darkness takes a solid heavy form. This heavy load is so light in its release. Walking back to my warm house I knew I would struggle to find the words to tell this story. And in the telling they would fall short. And the storyteller is born again. </div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-15092688038263892372016-12-19T15:32:00.000-08:002016-12-19T17:10:31.812-08:00Manifesto of a Solitary Artist in the Age of Unenlightenment<div style="font-size: 18px; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A Confession, a Conclusion, a Manifesto….</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Otherwise titled, Five Years in the Journey of a Artist in the Age of Unenlightenment</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Otherwise titled… Onward!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Five years ago I sat a table with a small group of friends and revealed to them my decision to step away from the world. I don’t think I said “drop out” because I knew I had to remain attached enough to put food on my table and pay the rent. And I wanted to try, for once, to put 100% of my effort into surviving financially as an artist. But, I explained, I don’t believe in it anymore… the BIG LIE, that I have to make my money this way (at the time I operated a successful tourist shop in Fish Creek, WI) and all the little lies that I swallow in order to make that happen. I moved out of the city and into this little doublewide in the woods and started making my exit…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Within a year my “step away” was a giant leap into the unknown and uncertainty of the path less traveled. I closed my shop, and I sold or gave away most everything that remained. I kept what I needed to work from home as a eco-conscious artist, working with repurposed materials and selling in a few local galleries and online. It was a dramatic change of lifestyle and work and income. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It didn’t take long before the little savings I had was gone. The simple choice of whether to drive to town depended as much on gas money as the environmental consequences. I had cornered myself into a life of quiet solitary work (which I wanted) and financial precariousness (much more than I expected) and the stress of trying to succeed at something in these circumstances. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am not writing this to tell you about reducing trips to the dump and the pump. There are plenty of resources on the internet if you want to learn about that. I’m sure there are people doing a better job than I am. What I want to share is the psychological impact this leap had on me and my life, my relationships and, in the end, my definition of self. What i didn’t realize, while revealing my decision at that table five years ago, was dropping out of the system would mean emptying my life of the activity and thought that filled every work day. And it would be scary to be that empty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We are all born into a culture and we are a part of that culture. And that culture is a part of us. As many people already realize, in a racist culture, the members, even when they are abhorrent to the IDEA of racism, still have elements of it in them. That is true for every distinguishing feature of the culture you exist in. As we are in the universe and the universe is in us, WE ARE IN THE CULTURE AND THE CULTURE IS IN US. And this culture we live in, this American Dream, it is a state of heightened consumerism. Everything we do is somehow measured and compared, every breath, every step is broken apart into quantitative measurements. We lay prostrate to the system waiting for the final numbers of our worth. When you’re not productive in the system, you are invisible. You are certainly not a success. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That was the hard part… </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We not only consume products of the system, we are the products and the consumers and the means of production. Even if all you are producing is another version of the lie. Stepping away means unraveling oneself from these roles, and refusing to lie to yourself. When you start to really separate yourself from the culture you live in there is a dangerous thing that happens, you lose your sense of self. This is evident when you are a solitary and, for the most part, unrecognized artist. Being a solitary and unrecognized artist had always made it possible for me to be true to myself. I have always been free of the pressures of academia and fashion and trends, whether intellectual or aesthetic. But here I was taking a leap of faith that I could survive financially as an artist and still retain my artistic freedom. I had no idea what a psychologically dangerous pit I was falling into. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I didn’t expect the loss of my connection to this world I was raised in and lived in to be so difficult. I thought I had already let it go. I had rejected Capitalism and Consumer Culture and I had embraced Simple Living. At first I was elated to be free and told friends how great it felt. Fairly soon after the initial elation I had a health crisis that was nearly debilitating. My entire body was covered in a rash, a terribly itchy uncomfortable rash that lasted almost two years. During this time I buried myself in work and distanced myself from friends. I established strong boundaries, many of which were healthy and necessary, but for awhile I built a wall around myself. I spent hours in solitude and lived a quasi hermit’s life and had a love/hate relationship with my own existence. (I need to add I did this with a caring partner on a similar path) Without the distractions of the world and work I had once buried myself in, I found new distractions, everything from Netflix series about aliens to the strange new world of social media marketing. I was painfully aware of the emptiness of these new distractions. The biggest distraction was still so firmly rooted in me I didn’t see it for another couple of years, the addiction to work, productiveness and the dream of success. But, despite how hard I worked, I was not all that successful, just scraping by.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I started feeling frustrated and lost. I felt a range of emotions from hopelessness to jealousy. As much as my rational brain told me otherwise, my feelings told me I was a victim. I experienced mild depression and that was new for me, and scary. I mentally chastised myself for every missed opportunity in life, leading me to a place of emptiness. I felt like a failure and still, at this point, did not realize the emptiness I felt was just the temporary emptiness that results when you empty your life of the things that no longer fulfill you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That depression grew into discontent and longing. I literally drove and walked all over Door County (and the state of Wisconsin) wishing I had a different life. Every house, farm or commercial building that was for sale could take me on an imaginary journey into some dream existence… sometimes lasting days or weeks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sometimes, while driving around and looking at old farms and shops for sale, I saw myself through the watcher’s gaze and I saw the desperation in this search. I have no money in the bank. I knew this search would have to stop. I could see it for what it was, another attempt to validate myself. In the sheer transparency of my desperation I finally saw it, what I was beating myself up about, what i was perceiving as failure, what I was desperately trying to fill. The Void. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And then came the real grieving. The tears. That process that may look like the worst to someone looking in, but is really the best. The new me that emerged from all this pain of letting go reconnected with my deeper self. All the parts of me that had never fit into this culture flooded back into my consciousness, orphans from unfinished chapters in the life of a outsider. I was successfully making it through my difficult journey. The tears, which now I see to be the true release, freed me from the guilt of perceived failure and the fear of a perceived lack of belonging and the longing for something that I didn’t need.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I had learned what I needed most to learn, that the simple concept of consumption isn’t just about buying and selling; those are simply the forms that dominate our economy. They overshadow the way in which the mentality of consumption destroys our spirit and our humanity. I think it was a dramatic lesson for me only because as a solitary artist and social outsider my life had been kidnapped by the concept of my art as a product and my purpose as a producer. In this new cottage industry economy it is easy to fall into that trap. I confused my artistic journey with the journey of the many “makers” in this new economy, but that is not who I am. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Just as I had to come to terms with the realization that i do not fit into the world of academia, nor into the commercial art world, I am not a “maker” in this new economy, one which pushes artists to be slickly marketed production machines. (Note there are many people who fulfill the role of "maker' and remain true to their artisan values and I am not referring to them. Being a new field, it is pursued with passion by many but is also manipulated by larger forces.) What I finally awakened to is the realization that my journey as an artist has to be absolutely authentic and tireless, and like no other journey that has ever come before me. Success, whether measured by money, production, or social acceptance, should have no role in the motivation of the artist. The only success is to be alive and to continue to create something for the world that reflects ones true existence in the world. There are no models or templates or guidebooks, only hard work and intuition. I have no intention to stop working. But my work no longer depends on the narrow definitions of “productivity” and worldly success. I am working even harder, because I have come to realize it is my soul’s work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have something new to bring with me for the steps and leaps ahead. A sense of peace like none I’ve ever experienced cropped up in the emptiness left my my “dropping out.” The only thing I feel I need to fill the space with is love and the work of love, which is different for every person. We are all here fulfilling an individual path that can’t be separated from the whole of the paths, the movement of the world and its beings. All each of us needs to do is answer that for ourselves, not letting any one person or system or culture tell us what that is. What an energizing truth. It fills us with the energy we need to do the work that must be done. We need to be in service to bring forth love rather than drain love from the world. Because this is where the REAL WORK begins.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I will try hard to never forget how awful the rashes, the anger and angst and depression felt each time I am tempted by distractions, lulled into sleep or seduced by false dreams of “success”. Because I am in the culture and cannot drop out. That is the lesson. I have been in it all along and now I feel whole enough to be in it without being seduced or sickened. I envision myself walking through it with my head held up and my back straight and my eyes wide open, in a direction that I have never headed before. As the true artist I have always been. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That is my Manifesto. An artist in the Age of Unenlightenment.</span></div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-3227306426226649312016-12-12T14:47:00.000-08:002016-12-13T02:13:29.804-08:00Dreams and Visions - paintings in their raw states<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have made two decisions this month.</div>
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One is to leave paintings in their raw state.</div>
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The Other is to share all of my visions, even the ones I have been quiet about.</div>
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I don't turn on a lightbulb. I see in the darkness and find my way through it.</div>
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What i see in the dark, i can't see in the light. Not yet. Go deep, wake up. One day you will do both. </div>
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We are in Kali time. I am Usha. My time is not here yet, but I am preparing for it.</div>
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In Kali time the darkness makes the others remember. We are not smaller than the one controlling the story. We control our story. We heal and are unafraid of the darkness.</div>
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The governments of the world call it post-colonial. We ARE living in a Neo-colonial world</div>
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My ancestors came to me in a dream. They were refugees from a war with no winners. </div>
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They were seeking shelter in my cellar.</div>
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I asked the smaller man in front of the group, </div>
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"How did you get in?"</div>
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he said,</div>
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"We always find a way in."</div>
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I was afraid I could not care for them and I left them.</div>
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They left me. For many years they were hidden in darkness and unknown to me.</div>
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I promised to stop hiding from the darkness of the world, </div>
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as I promised to not let my grief for the world blind me.</div>
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I promised to walk out into the darkness and face every fear.</div>
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They are coming back to me.</div>
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<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-29243756069468880292016-12-02T00:18:00.002-08:002018-10-15T12:18:41.199-07:00The Holes in the Fabric of ForgettingAncestry Cloth is an esoteric act, a symbolic act, a metaphor for the immigrant, for the nomad, for the wanderer. It is a daily meditation, weaving together a forgetful monochromatic present with the colors and patterns just beyond memory. <br />
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When I'm cutting and stitching, I often think about Indigenous peoples around the world, who were ripped from their homes and taught to forget. When I listen to elders who are still connected to the sentience of the universe, I know what was almost lost, a wisdom for the present that we need for our survival. Despite the suffering, the abuse and the losses along the way, Indigenous cultures, by some miraculous triumph of the human spirit, have endured. Their memories are not meant to be appropriated into the Colonial Culture. Their memories teach us how to regain our own. Those of us Enculturated into Colonial Culture have forgotten so much. Yet, we have the memories of Ancestors in our bodies, calling to us. We are also survivors, waking up to those quiet voices waiting to be heard, when we slow down and listen. <br />
The survivors of this world, those who remember, create a strong and beautiful mosaic of memories from the fragments that remain.<br />
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I think of the dream I had as a child, everyone around me turned to skeletons as I hid to save my skin. I can't get this dream out of my mind, my childhood nightmare haunts my waking hours. It is no wonder I sew. I sew this cloth, made of layers and layers of past and present. I am creating a new skin. It often looks like the hide of a animal. Sometimes I see earth and the fire within, and sometimes it is a topography of the soul. Other times I see rhythms of a distant dance, ebbing and flowing through the holes in the fabric of forgetting.. </div>
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I am making a new skin for the skeletons: connective tissue for myself and my human family. I am making a cloth to cover our bones and to make us remember. They are the Time Traveling Champion Capes for defending the spirit. They are the Memory Headdresses for channeling what we have always known. <br />
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They are dresses of Armor, to warm us in the cold and steel our nerves when we cannot see through the darkness our forgetfulness has left us. They are the ceremonial attire for the dancer who spins to the music that brings collective memories back to the surface.<br />
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They are the wardrobe for the Nomad on her long Journey Home.<br />
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Special thanks to photographer Kara Counard <a href="http://bloomphotographybykara.com/">http://bloomphotographybykara.com</a></div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-21619114791305218002016-11-22T05:58:00.000-08:002016-11-23T05:12:55.578-08:00The Tiger and the Swan<div style="line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Authors note: I wrote and illustrated this story over 15 years ago. I never really did anything with it except to send it to one publisher and read it to the Quaker Friends Sunday School, and to my elementary students in Washburn, WI. Some recent events made me decide to share this story. It was written by my younger self, but I still like the lessons. Enjoy and share if you want to, print it if you like. It is a gift to you if it is a story that speaks to you.</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span></h2>
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Every year, in the special place where land and water meet, mother ducks wait patiently on their nests, while the earth springs to life all around.</div>
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One lucky mother duck was the proud parent of three handsome yellow ducklings. But there was one egg left in her nest that didn’t stir at all. Mother Ducks are loyal, like mothers should be, so she continued to wait, and wait, and wait, for the big egg that sat perfectly still. </div>
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One morning, mother duck felt the earth rumbling beneath her. Up she jumped! Lo and behold, the big egg was bobbing and twisting and crackling and crumbling. Out came the most horrendous looking duckling she had ever seen.</div>
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“Looks aren’t everything,” she mumbled as she pushed the big duckling out of the nest and into the farmyard. Every creature, big and small, two and four legged, feathered and furred, laughed and laughed.</div>
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“Well, you are rather unusual,” she took a critical look at the strange creature that had hatched in her very own nest. “Could it be that you are not a duckling after all?” </div>
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A big tear rolled down the duckling’s face. It didn’t make him look any more attractive. But if mother duck could have seen his heart breaking, she never would have said such words. </div>
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Sometimes people, and animals, don’t understand just how much words can hurt. The words the duckling heard that day caused so much pain inside he ran and ran. He felt that if he could run fast and far enough he would run away from the pain. When he was too exhausted to move another inch, he collapsed at the bank of a deep and dark lake. Too tired to keep his eyes open, he dreamt a strange and beautiful dream of big white birds breaking through the black sky of night.</div>
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That deep dark lake seemed to call to the Ugly Duckling, so he stayed there for days. And the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months. All the while he spent his time hiding from wild dogs and raccoons and searching for little bits of food here and there. When a young bird is all alone in the world, life is a hard thing to hold on to. Still, something made this brave duckling hold on, even as the days grew shorter and the north wind snuck up behind him.</div>
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It was one of these cold dark afternoons when the duckling saw a flock of big white birds fly overhead. Their calls pulled at something deep inside of him. As they flapped their powerful wings, he swam out further and further into the deep dark cold water. As the birds disappeared over the trees, he noticed he was much further out than he had ever been before. Paralyzed with fear, he floated in the icy water as it slowly froze around him. That night he dreamt he was being called away to a warmer place. He was so tired of fighting to stay alive, so tired of being cold and lonely and hungry. </div>
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You can imagine the duckling’s surprise when he woke the next morning and was still alive! Standing over him was the strangest looking creature. It was bigger than any dog he had ever seen, and its thick coat of fur was covered with flames of orange and yellow.</div>
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“I should run away from this fierce beast,” he whispered, but the warmth from the strange creature melted him right out of the ice, and he was no longer afraid.</div>
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And that was the beginning of a most unexpected friendship. Who would have ever thought that a tiger and a duckling would enjoy each other’s company? Perhaps when a duckling does not realize that he’s not a duckling, and a tiger does not realize that she’s not a tiger, perhaps then they don’t know any better than to like each other. The rest of the winter did not seem cold at all, as they traveled and played together. Every night they would snuggle together for warmth and dream. </div>
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When it seemed as if spring would never arrive, the warm sun melted the last icicles from the roof tops and crocus bulbs poked their little heads out of the muddy ground. Duckling and tiger danced and spun and rolled on the soft earth laughing. The friendship these two shared had caused them to forget the hardships and fears that brought them together. And, it seems, they had also forgotten what they were running from in the first place. </div>
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That is why the young girl under the tiger skin felt brave enough to peel away the heavy fur that had covered her all winter. Duckling gasped as his furry friend slowly transformed into a young lady. She sat him down, and began to tell the duckling an amazing tale. </div>
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“One day,” she began, “there was a beautiful woman in a big house with a handsome husband. She thought her life was perfect, as she filled it with all the things she felt she was missing. Then one day she discovered she was going to have a baby. This, she believed, would make her life even better. One night the woman had a dream. She dreamt of big red birds, breaking through the black sky of night. The next day her baby was born.</div>
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“Everything went well for the mother and her child. She was a very proud mother and she loved to show off her baby to anyone who would look. Even as her child grew older, she took her into town to make sure everyone could see with their own eyes that she was even more lovely than the day before. That is, until something very strange happened. One morning when the mother was helping to dress her child she noticed long red marks on her back. She could not understand how they got there or even how long they had been there. She was sure the people would be shocked, so she insisted that her daughter keep her back completely covered at all times. The young girl soon learned to be ashamed.”</div>
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“Shame kept that girl hidden inside her parents house for days. And the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months. She longed for the fresh air and sunlight. Afraid to be recognized, she covered herself with the biggest heaviest thing she could find, the fur of the Great Bengal Tiger, that her grandfather had hunted in India. First she wore the fur out into the yard. Then she wore it down the street. When she finally went into town, the people stepped aside exclaiming, “Let the Great Tiger pass.” She herself began to forget who was underneath the heavy fur.”</div>
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“But your friendship has helped me to remember,” she whispered, as she pulled the fur off of her head and felt the cool breeze soothe her neck.</div>
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Duckling looked at his dear friend without her tiger fur. All he could recognize of her was the soothing sound of her familiar voice. She seemed so small and pale, and yet strong and beautiful.</div>
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“You’re no tiger!” his voice came out squeaky and strange.</div>
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“And you’re no duckling.”</div>
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In the warm reflection of his friend’s eyes he saw himself for the first time. He was a beautiful white swan. Only in his dreams had he ever imagined a bird so lovely.</div>
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The young swan felt nervous and the young woman rose from the riverbank, leaving her fur at a bundle at her feet. </div>
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“Where are you going?” he pleaded.</div>
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“I am going home,” she replied. “And you have somewhere to go too.” She gestured to the sky, where a flock of swans were returning to the lake.</div>
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“But how will I live without you?” he was beginning to cry. </div>
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“You will fly through the sky and swim over the water. With me you would always be stuck on the shore. I will come back every spring to see how you’ve grown. Promise you will look for me.”</div>
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The two friends made a promise. And every year, in the special place where land and water meet, they keep their word. </div>
<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-81480109546809719472016-11-02T17:50:00.000-07:002016-11-02T18:31:25.252-07:00Visionary PaintingVisionary Painting is a very broad term that many people claim. In my opinion they are all valid but they are all not the same.<br />
I am not borrowing other's philosophies that speak to me and making illustrative collages with known images in order to communicate my cause. This is fine, it is a form of communication and it can spread ideas. There's nothing wrong with it, it's just not what I do.<br />
I am not envisioning an ideal world and painting it. This is a valid process and can stimulate awareness and even change, but... not what I do.<br />
I am not looking at the world outside of me and painting my vision of it, art like this can be very beautiful and stirring, but it's not what I do.<br />
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What I do is something different. I am not the only one, but I think we're not very mass-market popular. We are not commerce driven because this work isn't pretty and it's a hard sell. We are not academic because we rely on our intuition and mysterious processes much more than our intellect. We sometimes don't mirror the accepted academic stance on issues, we sometimes do. Sometimes I have no idea where we fit, but I know it when I see it. We do our work in private, making sense of the world by listening to the muse of the spirit world giving us messages that are difficult to decipher. We "put them out there" when we deem them ready. I have had to remind myself over and over again not to comprimise this, even if I never get recognition, attention or money for what I paint. When I remember that, I am rewarded greatly by the process itself. </div>
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So, why share it at all? I guess I just get pretty excited about it. I feel like a consciousness talks to me when I'm painting and I get very enthusiastic about that. It feels like a wider and more expansive consciousness that I have in other areas of life. So it's sometimes hard to understand completely, especially when I first hear it. It's a bit like dreaming while awake. I want others to look and maybe see it, maybe not. At this point 90% or more of you may be dismissing me as delusional, flaky or both. But I'm ok, I function as well as most. I am not convinced my thoughts are always clear or realistic, but they are not any more delusional that anyone elses belief systems. (in my humble opinion)</div>
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I actually feel these "conversations" help me function better. But only when I keep them balanced wth the rest of my existence.</div>
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When I was a very young child I dreamt I was on a boat, heading to a big destination with my family. I think we were moving our residence. During the trip a psychotic doctor was turning everyone into skeletons. I hid and was able to escape, but I was terrified. The rest of my family were skeletons. I was torn between trying to save them and staying hidden. I had no idea how to save them. I didn't want to be a skeleton. I woke up with the dilemma unresolved, a fearful wakening in the middle of the night. I will never forget it. </div>
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This symbolism is the subject of this painting and of a solo show I have scheduled for a year from now. (The show is at UW-Fox Valley in Menasha, WI) I have decided to name the show "Usha" after my imaginary alter-ego I developed when I learned my Hindi name. </div>
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Usha is a character who resolves issues for me through stories. They are stories I have never shared publicly, but they mean a great deal to me. Literary World-wise they are not ready, well-written or completely resolved enough to publish, in my opinion. But they really help me think...</div>
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This particular painting finds water and oil interacting. The skeleton is from my dream, and my skeleton drips oils from all it's limbs. I don't yet know where Usha fits into this, but I know she will. She is coming out of the many layers, like the dresses I make. She is hiding behind the ancestors, she is flowing in the water. She wants to save the skeletons but she is afraid. It just takes time. For now there is water and it runs through the skeletons mouth, trying to bring it back to life, but it seeps through and waters the wheels of a great and powerful machinery. The thing is that the water never stops flowing, even after the machines have stopped.</div>
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The ancestors keep watch. They are witnesses to it all, but they cannot be heard by most. What is it they want to say? Can we listen?</div>
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I believe Usha will appear and she will help me once again understand my role. It might be in a dream. It might be a story that comes to me. It might be the next time I am painting this. I hope I have the answer soon, because I feel helpless and afraid sometimes, not knowing how to act and not react to the times and events we are all living through. </div>
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I feel that I know more than I knew before I had the vision, but I certainly don't have any answers. Just feelings, images and more questions.</div>
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<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-41388122029561670152016-10-05T06:51:00.000-07:002016-12-01T22:46:03.321-08:00Ancestors - India<div style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
To speak of Ancestors of to speak of the past in its human form. <span style="font-size: 14px;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad leaving India</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDGb826VumIGiq0SJe0kDQUpKbcnz6cLZNYOcg9x4zFFe1fsq7qIAjSSeCRlF3tEYidDlbkkoUv0uUwM7ws7NIlXId55PPtbxPpw-K17dFl8-zFGwbBO94d4J-FB-8VFSJvLKfcDK6v5b/s1600/Cape+%25231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDGb826VumIGiq0SJe0kDQUpKbcnz6cLZNYOcg9x4zFFe1fsq7qIAjSSeCRlF3tEYidDlbkkoUv0uUwM7ws7NIlXId55PPtbxPpw-K17dFl8-zFGwbBO94d4J-FB-8VFSJvLKfcDK6v5b/s200/Cape+%25231.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Ancestor Cape I finished this week</td></tr>
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All my life I’ve thought about India. Before I was born my father left on a ship. It set his life on a course that took him further and further away from his birthplace. And all my life, even before I knew it, I have been drawing and painting, and crafting a path back. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLHJ4vfijwTrLwEVOUKUbGDBhwK74vBHSJGsIKYvdncnbGH7CZreLRjP4naBBDoSp5TIUIHKL43XCbEEunjNM4Wf4xx_GuC_1iw5W6cpW9-QMNfm4tx7OQeZ6XV0HMr_k2DebDV0JfoVS/s1600/Miniature+Painting+The_Victory_of_Ali_Quli_Khan_on_the_river_Gomti-Akbarnama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLHJ4vfijwTrLwEVOUKUbGDBhwK74vBHSJGsIKYvdncnbGH7CZreLRjP4naBBDoSp5TIUIHKL43XCbEEunjNM4Wf4xx_GuC_1iw5W6cpW9-QMNfm4tx7OQeZ6XV0HMr_k2DebDV0JfoVS/s320/Miniature+Painting+The_Victory_of_Ali_Quli_Khan_on_the_river_Gomti-Akbarnama.jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miniature Painting: The Victory of Ali Quli Khan on the river Gomti-Akbarnama </td></tr>
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When I was a very small child I drew meticulous miniature drawings, with battle scenes and leafy trees, looking like something out of the Mughal Empire, without the skilled hand of a Court Painter. It was like that all through my childhood, sometimes just a shape or a pattern of curves, or a color palette, would bring a little India back into my present day life. When I began to recognize this it seemed a bit like magic, as if the voices of the past were whispering in my ear. Very possibly the books about India that were scattered throughout the house, as well as a family trip right after my tenth birthday had more to do with these visual tendencies; either way my interest in Ancestors was sparked. By the time I was a graduate student in the arts I focused a great deal of study on Indian history and art, even taking a Hindi summer course with UWMadison’s own Virendra Ji, where I flailed through the intensive study of a language that felt surprisingly foreign to me. </div>
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I find it ironic now, reflecting on my personal quest in the nineties, when I was so focused on India Past. Simultaneously millions of young Indians were pursuing new careers, moving to cities like Chennai and Mumbai, and looking towards a American ideal of the self made man as a new way of seeing themselves and their futures. While they were casting away Old India I was catching it in my net and spreading it out on notebooks and canvases, creating a visual incantation of a past I had so little connection to, apart from the blood in my veins. What we were all doing was putting holes in the walls that blocked out the light of our imaginations. For me the light filtered bits of a past where I imagined I belonged, and for the millions of young Indians at the end of the 20th century, a yet to be imagined future. I wonder now if we had torn down the wall completely would we have found each other standing hesitantly on the other side?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYBnA684Z48gIR4BH44uPZQfQxIoLFYb63s1YB7kHXQkmwrVXowz_8XAD9iUNsOFd6yT2vOXZOLhTyq2xWxq0QSuAJ5J9Ot46hStGT3GQCvM3e7kIlS44N1bDTet_wWullSfiCeESeINN/s1600/Mughal%2527s+Dream+1997.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYBnA684Z48gIR4BH44uPZQfQxIoLFYb63s1YB7kHXQkmwrVXowz_8XAD9iUNsOFd6yT2vOXZOLhTyq2xWxq0QSuAJ5J9Ot46hStGT3GQCvM3e7kIlS44N1bDTet_wWullSfiCeESeINN/s400/Mughal%2527s+Dream+1997.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My painting: Mughal's Climb 1996 </td></tr>
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At the time, focused on All Things Indian, I was forging a path back through the terrain of weeds and heavy brush that had grown in my father’s footsteps. He had left it all behind a generation earlier and my idealistic quest for cultural belonging both amused and annoyed him. I was poking holes in the veneer of Being an American - something he had worked so hard and long to afford us. But right under the surface of the veneer was a richer history that my restless fingers picked away at. Of course the holes I created were small and only offered a tiny glimpse of the full picture. They were almost harmless, like tiny moth holes in a wool sweater. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t unravel the mystery of my own past enough to understand my place in the present. In Virendra’s Hindi class I realized I had less in common with the Indian kids than the Caucasians. But the reality, that I belonged to neither gnawed at me enough to make me continue picking and poking, until my whole world looked like Swiss Cheese. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpVpq28GOQJ_x-yNbvu8MBcxgDqwDnJGIS5ESWDfQFtcPfCaVOcWmWAsvOFdHbf_sj-sxqsT9xaxRet8d1co9DxWeL-tgZnJJiUwkQAnh_CNk2AQal-qrn3zuFcc8xF5W0XHLiIXVpa5S/s1600/2340+Patel004+copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpVpq28GOQJ_x-yNbvu8MBcxgDqwDnJGIS5ESWDfQFtcPfCaVOcWmWAsvOFdHbf_sj-sxqsT9xaxRet8d1co9DxWeL-tgZnJJiUwkQAnh_CNk2AQal-qrn3zuFcc8xF5W0XHLiIXVpa5S/s400/2340+Patel004+copy.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Layered Print, one of many I made in the 90's</td></tr>
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With all those holes in my psyche it was time to start the process of REPAIR. And so began a lifetime cycle of tear and repair , that has revealed to me who I am as much as it has made me. </div>
Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-70539660553275673532016-10-01T17:55:00.000-07:002016-10-02T06:37:04.643-07:00Layers, Labyrinths and Ancestors<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PBjnPLiH2tZtxXCwPYvg31TXrMdqs8f4ayPNTz5munjgB-GbaW4AxBaZbmeeq4QkFH1aSbCikg6BUR7rVigh-_TYLb5Q2NxcKN-qCEx-uIz16vS0HSJtrAwUDNZExn9plESphlXqJ5Iw/s1600/MughalsDream+blog+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PBjnPLiH2tZtxXCwPYvg31TXrMdqs8f4ayPNTz5munjgB-GbaW4AxBaZbmeeq4QkFH1aSbCikg6BUR7rVigh-_TYLb5Q2NxcKN-qCEx-uIz16vS0HSJtrAwUDNZExn9plESphlXqJ5Iw/s400/MughalsDream+blog+pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mughals Dream 1996</td></tr>
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I've been so busy sewing cloth lately I can't find time to write, but I have thoughts floating through my mind that threaten to leave me if I don't give them my full attention. Thoughts can be fickle and needy that way. But perhaps they are just realistic, most anything ignored fails to thrive. </div>
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I have a photo shoot scheduled and I want lots of new pieces of Ancestry Cloth. The photos will be taken in the woods where my father's ashes were spread. For me this is a gesture of respect and honor, was well as a beckoning for energy from Dad, who now exists in the Ancestor realm. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKfbAwD3fRlRMujvxgBT0NqsT9ZeoUL3Q_J3jDWk0C7lw4Y00FKfAVHdHsUW1jC6fK_Vs-W2yT6GL0J48YNVLoXig1yRAqFZp1G2gJMzaYi_MtGAl1DTERO__wY9ZI_o3nLJZQc2XV6ch/s1600/InnocentAndKind+blog+pic.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKfbAwD3fRlRMujvxgBT0NqsT9ZeoUL3Q_J3jDWk0C7lw4Y00FKfAVHdHsUW1jC6fK_Vs-W2yT6GL0J48YNVLoXig1yRAqFZp1G2gJMzaYi_MtGAl1DTERO__wY9ZI_o3nLJZQc2XV6ch/s400/InnocentAndKind+blog+pic.tiff" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Innocent and Kind 1994</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancestry Cloth 2016</td></tr>
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As I sew I think about layers. I have painted in layers for years. These layers represent time and memory and the limits of both. How we view things from the present changes the image of the past. It is impossible to see everything at once, so we pick and choose the details to focus on and those to cover with new experience. Which brings me to patterns, because it is our patterns, of thought, of language, of noticing, that determine the final image.</div>
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While I'm sewing and cutting Ancestry Cloth I realize I am doing the very same thing, but (at the moment) in abstractions. Because I am creating these patterns and layers of abstract shapes my mind is free to take them to places unrestricted by a storyline. They are simply layers and patterns, the ancestors talking to me and me talking back.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancestry Cloth, back view 2016</td></tr>
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I have also been noticing my stitches spiraling into labyrinths. So I think about labyrinths. There's the trap of the labyrinth in the story of the Minotaur. But there's also those in the Buddhist Stupas, a spiral walk intended to center your mind. These are the labyrinths that intrigue me most. This stitching centers my mind in a way that makes me think at times I can almost articulate the emotion of this work. </div>
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This emotion feels a lot like caring, and it is possible that it is love.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adinkra 2014</td></tr>
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"Love is the only Engine of Survival" L. Cohen (from "The Future")</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancestor Dress 2016</td></tr>
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-10306866782621293242016-09-20T11:40:00.000-07:002016-09-20T17:52:06.537-07:00A Brief Introduction to Ancestry Cloth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I made a promise to myself that I would start to write about art again when I felt like I had something to say, something worth putting out into the world. That’s a heavy proposition. Who has something relevant to say? With all the voices on the internet, in the news and on the street I have been leaning towards silence lately… silently making clothing and art and not saying much.</div>
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Now, after much silence I feel that I have a few things to say. I don’t think it will change the world or anyone’s vote in the next election. Nonetheless I have had some revelations in the studio and at the sewing machine and in the shop. Now that the days are getting shorter, the leaves are just starting to fall, the reflection sets in. So, here I go.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ancestors.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaYLr-0jyTVayy6Ozsr2p-WQI38ufO67vM-FMK3YyXUCf6bj2dzObGStdWvajmBFNGc2e-q1-v4vNCU7h0vdjZW_G0EOLONQNHn-mGihwj1in_ylUv03XWHis-e8jm5D9XUJdXEDufE80/s1600/IMG_0115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaYLr-0jyTVayy6Ozsr2p-WQI38ufO67vM-FMK3YyXUCf6bj2dzObGStdWvajmBFNGc2e-q1-v4vNCU7h0vdjZW_G0EOLONQNHn-mGihwj1in_ylUv03XWHis-e8jm5D9XUJdXEDufE80/s200/IMG_0115.jpg" width="200" /></a>We all have them. Mine are often a mystery to me but at the same time I am very aware of them. They are always with me. Without embarking upon any religious or magical worldview, I can say with all certainty that I know my ancestors walk with me AND I do not know exactly what that means. Could it be that being in a family that has crossed oceans away from the PLACE of their ancestors makes it more difficult to know? Or could it make it more poignant and pressing, a connection fused from a stronger longing than any native could know? I don't resist the areas of “not knowing” because I love the <b>mystery</b>; in fact I love it so much more than the <b>certainty</b>. While certainty provides some comfort, the mystery is alive, ongoing and always changing. Without an acceptance of <b>unknowing</b>, all becomes stagnant and dead. So everything I create must in fact express that belief more than any other. If I have any religious belief at all it is that </div>
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change is the only constant, and <b>mystery is the only certainty</b>. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2RUhlpOD0UDFOScnUz-BRJ3a5HiVJky0dgebnHulcpA8joeVovkZR2h1Me7vjggFiwES1pv0uaHVJneDK7jtyxnkr0gH_WAjQEQHXn2mwfKJVDl248xlGxdIjoH_l4Q-67o7aom8PLNuo/s1600/IMG_9898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2RUhlpOD0UDFOScnUz-BRJ3a5HiVJky0dgebnHulcpA8joeVovkZR2h1Me7vjggFiwES1pv0uaHVJneDK7jtyxnkr0gH_WAjQEQHXn2mwfKJVDl248xlGxdIjoH_l4Q-67o7aom8PLNuo/s1600/IMG_9898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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And I have a mysterious certainty that my ancestors walk through this life with me, changing me as I change them. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikITXB8YAplNc5rHSa4iq6nGivXWmR-fPmFwdOCQs8CGvXcrfLtZxwF0g5L4RvdcNBAi1K9HZ5uDr2vznMbQ8TebiIyxWQdeXBXvzAYru9KV3WOvO7SnhAvxbBMbIADIH0706HQkDKRXVC/s1600/IMG_0157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikITXB8YAplNc5rHSa4iq6nGivXWmR-fPmFwdOCQs8CGvXcrfLtZxwF0g5L4RvdcNBAi1K9HZ5uDr2vznMbQ8TebiIyxWQdeXBXvzAYru9KV3WOvO7SnhAvxbBMbIADIH0706HQkDKRXVC/s200/IMG_0157.jpg" width="200" /></a>Out of this belief of mine a fabric took form, and I call it Ancestry Cloth. This cloth is formed from days of destruction and rebuilding. I accidentally discovered the process, which makes it even more special to me, because I don’t really believe in accidents. Sometimes “accidents” happen because we are not present, and missing the signs we misstep. But sometimes “accidents happen because we are very present, acting on intuition and listening to the silence and seeing the unseen. </div>
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<b>Many of us call this serendipity.</b></div>
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One sunny day this summer I “accidentally” distressed (it was actually falling apart!) some very expensive fabric in the process of drawing with bleach. The creative and somewhat desperate solutions I came up with to bring it back led to some telling discoveries, about fabric and clothing as well as about myself. </div>
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Because I make the Ancestor Cloth it is specifically a story of my ancestors, and I hope to be able to articulately tell that story in words and pictures in the coming months. But it is often in the most personal stories that the most universal truths are told, so I can only hope that my paths of destruction and repair are metaphors that many can understand, whether or not they have walked the immigrants path. After all, we are a country of immigrants, with the exception of the the original Americans, the native tribes of this land. (And perhaps Native Americans have had to repair the most destruction of all, as it is still happening.)</div>
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The final stage in the Ancestry Cloth is the “wearing” and that is, I believe, when the magic occurs. </div>
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com2Egg Harbor, WI 54209, USA45.0463807 -87.297050245.0015107 -87.3777312 45.0912507 -87.2163692tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-2012939036939157332016-02-07T11:23:00.000-08:002016-02-07T18:59:15.552-08:00The Journey<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's one of many overused phrases in our culture, that, once full of possibility, have become slogans that sell everything. (especially cars) But... nevertheless... I have to start this post with these words:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It is not the destination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It IS the Journey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here I am. 50 years old. Still figuring out what painting means to me. Well, not in every sense. Not in the deep down in my gut way, the way it has pulled me deep down into my interior... in that sense I've always known. But understanding the relationship between me and painting and the world, that's another story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I finished another painting this morning. I thought it was finished a few days ago, but I was wrong. That happens a lot. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here's what it looked like two days ago:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not too different, but not quite right. Quite right is a very understated emotional moment when I have pulled out everything the painting is able to give me. I just know it, if I'm paying attention. Paying attention to what? Paying attention to the painting, while equally paying attention to my gut. By that I mean a feeling deep inside. A deep feeling that is truthful, not "nice" not "pretty" not what I necessarily "want" to hear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I believe Truth is something you feel. It's a heavy and quiet feeling that slows down my breathing and centers me. I know it and I trust it. The more I practice this the more I have no need to react to anyone else's "truth" and, therefore, I find it easier to be in the world without being swallowed up by the world.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>This is why I paint.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I looked back at the photos I took of this painting in it's many stages of development. As it evolved it had many looks, and some are probably more appealing visually that the final product. Luckily for me I have no longer set my sights on painting for profit. I'm not worried about what other people want, what would be prettier, more pleasing and more trendy. What I'm worried about is pulling something out of a painting. Something that is inside of me, something that is in the air around me. Something in between me and all the forces outside of this body and mind I reside in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is how it started. A grid and a wall and couple of cats and a man. He's reaching for a tree. And that tree, reaching out of the ground, reaching, like the man. And walls, rooms, spaces... keeping everything separate and trapped and safe. And a ceiling that has stopped the tree from reaching any further. It might <b>look </b>pretty, but it's got to be resolved, because I know there's a problem that needs to be solved, a question to answer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">How I get to that answer is to just keep going. In the beginning I just let myself act on intuition. To look, respond, look again and respond again. And on and on again. I'm in this state of consciousness that is everything but literal, linear and verbal. I can look back on it and tell you what I did (in this case I defined what I was seeing with black lines) but at the time I probably couldn't explain it. Just doing. With paint</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRbpjsxP86UE29xUFLGWrQ32FxLkTXd7HwQuA2DQ9_lLVWIDMNjBz-zi5vTBtxaCiZUngDco5B8-cV00bNMIv5Eyfcw3KgU7f_woazDtyCCWqE-Bd2xOjBul9E6Y5GNB86-_ELUi7W0_i/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRbpjsxP86UE29xUFLGWrQ32FxLkTXd7HwQuA2DQ9_lLVWIDMNjBz-zi5vTBtxaCiZUngDco5B8-cV00bNMIv5Eyfcw3KgU7f_woazDtyCCWqE-Bd2xOjBul9E6Y5GNB86-_ELUi7W0_i/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">By day three I realize there's something bigger than all the little parts. I try to pull that out, with shadows. At this point I thought it might be figure, just the head and shoulders. A larger version of the little man, keeping everything else contained within itself. The grid has become an animate living thing, which still has elements of the grid inside of itself.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAJfbWS1VhWKD-WI4wDUiiHeBNvnclQfLwm3bJu37Qxv3O6Q8Q-EE2GZj0MdLho2kiYAeuDTQg9yAOLqjkL6X5qPHJfXefzcjDkPt0UMMla1fr49XdCERo-0i2yTcD2qOY8anMh5__Jpl/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAJfbWS1VhWKD-WI4wDUiiHeBNvnclQfLwm3bJu37Qxv3O6Q8Q-EE2GZj0MdLho2kiYAeuDTQg9yAOLqjkL6X5qPHJfXefzcjDkPt0UMMla1fr49XdCERo-0i2yTcD2qOY8anMh5__Jpl/s320/4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And then that being, be it a man, a woman, god, mind... whatever that was it has been swallowed up by the parts again, but this time the grid has become an organic web. This was a really pretty part of the journey. I wish I had taken a better photo. I think in the future I will set up a good camera with a tripod and be ready to capture these stages in a good high res file... just in case I want to print it up really large and enjoy this part. It is a beautiful place. I liked being there.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeTWw_RSFNhLRw58s-fUCX8NbZ0S0jV8M6VB5sDyqhcHqbwBSNeQL-i1o2zBk_fiDFbgkfeCxeUfdHvtlQXeu8pnEIPS8M3GNTyklXne6g8or710u7yIs3TsIblBHxfaMDzMM2W8oZcVE/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeTWw_RSFNhLRw58s-fUCX8NbZ0S0jV8M6VB5sDyqhcHqbwBSNeQL-i1o2zBk_fiDFbgkfeCxeUfdHvtlQXeu8pnEIPS8M3GNTyklXne6g8or710u7yIs3TsIblBHxfaMDzMM2W8oZcVE/s320/5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Five</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Day five, the image takes a radical turn. No longer moving through the larger plane of the world, a path has been chosen. The original character, the "subject" of this painting, has entered a new and protected space. The space, inside of himself, is isolated but bright. He's no longer swallowed up by the structure of the grid, nor the constant movement of the web. He has a focus and stillness that was lost. He is ready for transformation from within.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHvN4lo1pbF6yXDJY_tM0XHAxcGD_GqAmxuIFKMAjLMrLZjQ2827HJBXE3MXotU63TDamQmaJf9aMtaBlen1Kl-OaowFVgUDo12p-ADhUcO7HcjEcjKjY-A7voA5JaKppt7wWA3iX2Nyc/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHvN4lo1pbF6yXDJY_tM0XHAxcGD_GqAmxuIFKMAjLMrLZjQ2827HJBXE3MXotU63TDamQmaJf9aMtaBlen1Kl-OaowFVgUDo12p-ADhUcO7HcjEcjKjY-A7voA5JaKppt7wWA3iX2Nyc/s320/6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Six</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In day six he begins to see the web that he is. His own little cocoon begins to form a body and he is no longer a small little man but a little piece of something else that is just being born. His body becomes part of a pattern, of something larger, something that is not yet itself. I lost focus for a little while here and indulged in all the other busy things happening in the painting. All the other busy things are just similar stories unfolding, all at once. Every living thing that is born on this planet starts out like the first single cell organism to divide and, within itself, discover the endless nature of life. I felt like I may have taken a giant step backwards, getting all caught up in simple forms when I thought I was already past that. This part of the painting was a struggle.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kCHv1OEdEEAmdfCCQMkA26UyCJ2A8TCHdm9BGiJnI0-wvsqctjxugNA9_1Z6l0IaLTEF1vuA72V_5UkOcQfdJ3GVBKqtLSUfBKHvqyJ3dGhGODPIFZ_Y9JlsfI3o7hr6VcCLzh7g2B5V/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kCHv1OEdEEAmdfCCQMkA26UyCJ2A8TCHdm9BGiJnI0-wvsqctjxugNA9_1Z6l0IaLTEF1vuA72V_5UkOcQfdJ3GVBKqtLSUfBKHvqyJ3dGhGODPIFZ_Y9JlsfI3o7hr6VcCLzh7g2B5V/s320/7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seven</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The struggle is not to be avoided. I seem to have to learn this over and over. I want to curl up under a blanket and turn on Netflix and think about fake little worlds and dramas that are easy and entertaining. Metaphorically I have done this many times. And literally. But this painting keeps telling me this, "Come back, attend. The movement and the stillness and the looking and the thinking keep it going, keep it evolving and this is why you paint." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That little red man wants to stop, he wants to hide and he wants to sleep, but he keeps reaching and he becomes a pattern on the wing of a butterfly. The butterfly needs him to let go, in order to break out of its chrysalis. It doesn't need him to hold on and be "strong." It needs him to change with the other changes that are happening all around him. Not to be frozen in time, not to be afraid, not to be lazy, stubborn or proud. Not to follow and not to lead, just to evolve.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuFUAUmI-7dkE2eCGKzP5Jd7P9ZOoNwrgMsPMwH8LMsc5gNqVTtDrJ0Mg5d9btp3G3m8VyMR2fy68kKJODEDC4BB4PE4_LR6mbmPI3POebM6AjSBSOMAeYKRYkk6vXDnmW618Sfm4fO0S/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuFUAUmI-7dkE2eCGKzP5Jd7P9ZOoNwrgMsPMwH8LMsc5gNqVTtDrJ0Mg5d9btp3G3m8VyMR2fy68kKJODEDC4BB4PE4_LR6mbmPI3POebM6AjSBSOMAeYKRYkk6vXDnmW618Sfm4fO0S/s320/8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eight</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He doesn't let go, he is unable to.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUILfR26DPceyGeTP6ktfclQrN4iheb5y3WwWdRaCmWgL3MRkVq3t0xb3g2V7Qu7T1aAhtw0aW4kq-nfLcuSXDZ-PjQLkB1Z99D1XPadvE1euUbt-8Y06jd_fVn4yUT1g0n8c-T9zQhX7/s1600/9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUILfR26DPceyGeTP6ktfclQrN4iheb5y3WwWdRaCmWgL3MRkVq3t0xb3g2V7Qu7T1aAhtw0aW4kq-nfLcuSXDZ-PjQLkB1Z99D1XPadvE1euUbt-8Y06jd_fVn4yUT1g0n8c-T9zQhX7/s320/9.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nine</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I realize that this story has been told, it has been pulled out of me. The butterfly is frozen because the man could not let go and this is not a happy ending. But it is not really an ending. It a painting and it is one of many, I hope. It is a lesson and I like lessons. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>And that is why I paint.</b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBi54mXs3ud8mf_yXjVPBzAEKb7CapFIcMcGbHl2ElYxBA6LeII9fmoIAKADH1j8QhIh9oTB89I8A_Kpm-Mfu8lvXpNQDQnzcFAzzDXm6GjLjl7_BJ2oS8CVbwmQNAiB4D0YQ611lNJf1V/s1600/final+cocoon+ptg.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBi54mXs3ud8mf_yXjVPBzAEKb7CapFIcMcGbHl2ElYxBA6LeII9fmoIAKADH1j8QhIh9oTB89I8A_Kpm-Mfu8lvXpNQDQnzcFAzzDXm6GjLjl7_BJ2oS8CVbwmQNAiB4D0YQ611lNJf1V/s320/final+cocoon+ptg.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And our foolish man blows his trumpet triumphantly, <br />
thinking he has won when he has actually killed the forming butterfly. <br />
The butterfly is now a ghostly shell in which he is trapped. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To be continued...</span><br />
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-15349199033787436162015-11-18T16:25:00.001-08:002015-11-18T16:28:34.344-08:00I'm back... writing about art<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Qp76dwDS1Z17jyUC2m2qj90EdasdCexk5-WCXJ_vqlR-T1xK9rBO-j0wL9lyhLM141E7PtTNx8gDQDInatZEaQwZlEJkCPP9XEXczV0mQDjNpYmblmgVFjEUqzbS58GGy-r-vX3im3nA/s1600/Cannibal+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Qp76dwDS1Z17jyUC2m2qj90EdasdCexk5-WCXJ_vqlR-T1xK9rBO-j0wL9lyhLM141E7PtTNx8gDQDInatZEaQwZlEJkCPP9XEXczV0mQDjNpYmblmgVFjEUqzbS58GGy-r-vX3im3nA/s320/Cannibal+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I finished this painting today, stopping at a point that I would have not been able to leave alone in the past.</td></tr>
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I've been thinking about getting back into the habit of writing about art lately. I've probably been thinking about it for more than two months, but it took me that long to turn that impulse into action and those thought into words. <br />
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When I paint I have a pretty constant flow of thoughts, many that transform themselves into images, colors, textures and patterns on the canvas. The rest are left dangling in my head, and I often feel like the process is not complete until I clarify it. It doesn't really need to be verbalized to the world, but why not? If anyone wants to read it, that's great. If no one wants to read it, it's basically my own personal art journal on the internet. </div>
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So. I'm back.</div>
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This new painting is my way of processing the recent (and not so recent) events of the world. The constant conflict, the divisions based on ideology and political affiliation, the wars, the inequality, the lack of understanding, the lack of dialogue, the anger, hate, fear....</div>
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The dualistic thinking that has led humans to cannibalize their own selves.</div>
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And the compassion, the way some still stay connected, the love that remains, the bridges, the palms held open and the hearts that strive to stay there too. </div>
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I've been wondering if the human family is like a viscous dog, filled with fear, attacking and devouring it's own tail.</div>
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I think, but I'm not 100% sure, this painting will be titled "Cannibal"</div>
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I like that it's not obvious. It is vague and a little confusing and ambiguous in content. </div>
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It's how I feel.</div>
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I sincerely believe we are all connected. What to do about it is a mystery to me. I'm just trying hard to open my heart and keep it open. At the moment that's hard enough. Maybe it is enough. Maybe not. </div>
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The jury seems to be deliberating.</div>
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What does this all have to do with painting? I paint to figure this out, to articulate my innermost feelings and ideas to myself. I don't think my thoughts are going to be clear to the viewer. I think it's ok for every viewer to look and come up with their own meaning. I like to think some vital force in the image, in the colors and the compostion and the feelings that arise from them will communicate something, something close to what I'm experiencing when I'm painting it. I'm more and more comfortable with that. Is it possible to misinterpret art? I am trying to accept this is something I don't have to feel responsible for. Letting it go is a part of the process.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBt7tU_1xGzArHIKJ-Awx0hlL9bSVlAq_gEJhOQ47nGrUw0NqftWOSzwwuZdkVmoeL-g-FgCDiD3umQta7FegMM_9X8tnlxW6hPhEn4J0MoSqHaq8kcehcRffKfVH-UOlCztrrDXpdZaz/s1600/Flight++2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBt7tU_1xGzArHIKJ-Awx0hlL9bSVlAq_gEJhOQ47nGrUw0NqftWOSzwwuZdkVmoeL-g-FgCDiD3umQta7FegMM_9X8tnlxW6hPhEn4J0MoSqHaq8kcehcRffKfVH-UOlCztrrDXpdZaz/s320/Flight++2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After painting on canvas today I sat down and continued a few ideas on paper in a simpler and more lyrical way. <br />
Working on illustrations alongside larger more complex and evolved work comes naturally to me. </td></tr>
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All I know for sure is I have to keep painting, and I think writing about it a bit helps me to make a little sense out of it all. Just enought to keep focused and stay with the ideas that arise out of the work I do on canvas.</div>
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And if you read this far... well... welcome back to my art blog :)</div>
<a href="" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-4657936032349936002015-01-09T11:02:00.000-08:002015-01-09T12:31:24.412-08:00Sentience <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sentience</b><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">is the ability to</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> feel, perceive or experience subjectively</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">. Eighteenth-century philosophers used the concept to distinguish the ability to think (reason</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">) from the ability to feel (</span><i style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">sentience</i><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">). In modern Western philosophy, sentience is the ability to experience</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sensation_(psychology)" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" title="Sensation (psychology)">s</a>ensations<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">(known in</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philosophy_of_mind" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" title="Philosophy of mind">p</a>hilosophy of mind<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">as "</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">quailia</span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">"). In Eastern philosophy, sentience is a metaphysical quality of all things that requires respect and care. The concept is central to the philosophy of</span></span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Animal_rights" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" title="Animal rights">a</a>nimal rights<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">, because sentience is necessary for the ability to</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suffering" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" title="Suffering">s</a>uffer<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;">, and thus is held to</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Logical_consequence" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-decoration: none;" title="Logical consequence">c</a>onfer<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit;"> certain rights.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;">From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sentience">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sentience</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYBWrpWjEsK8KDF_f0DJqXQC2Slr8DB-RBvothrYOggzudO913NsknR_hc2pistadjB41IiFge8HZOkcuu_GlShn5gSg2hex7ceuZ2MCBIuYRhpGJMfmXhuVR_s9GP1pZpXGN9dvh7Hoc/s1600/Sentience-+Catch+and+Release+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYBWrpWjEsK8KDF_f0DJqXQC2Slr8DB-RBvothrYOggzudO913NsknR_hc2pistadjB41IiFge8HZOkcuu_GlShn5gSg2hex7ceuZ2MCBIuYRhpGJMfmXhuVR_s9GP1pZpXGN9dvh7Hoc/s1600/Sentience-+Catch+and+Release+copy.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Our lives at this time in history may introduce another "definition" or area to consider in the investigation of Sentience. This is the area of "Sentient Potential" a field of study dedicated to the very important questions we may be facing in the not too distant future regarding future techonologies in brain-machine interface. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px;">I just happened upon the </span><a href="http://sentientpotential.com/" style="font-size: 14px;">Sentient Potential Website</a><span style="font-size: 14px;"> while browsing the internet in my quest for understanding my recent obsession with the concept of Sentience. In the website the term "Sentient Potential" is defined as: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Lora, serif;">"the potential evolution, development, and expansion of all intelligence and awareness, a concept that goes beyond</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Lora, serif;"> “human potential” to encompass the entirety of living and aware beings." </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2l8e-LM7JQ8-6EEN1xJTObhFP__ILOUXlp9t_Y0zGuidEjqzSctOW_DN96_s7wUnqn8Kt4lRBkuundCEptRZWC9siNyLaC0sL-Wf3VUHrtgROIkjLCLz-K_AfpLcbQG-NP12J5dQvgxp/s1600/Sentience-+Confines+of+Nature+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2l8e-LM7JQ8-6EEN1xJTObhFP__ILOUXlp9t_Y0zGuidEjqzSctOW_DN96_s7wUnqn8Kt4lRBkuundCEptRZWC9siNyLaC0sL-Wf3VUHrtgROIkjLCLz-K_AfpLcbQG-NP12J5dQvgxp/s1600/Sentience-+Confines+of+Nature+copy.jpg" height="311" width="320" /></a></div>
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This new discovery on the internet has me thinking about this vision that has sprung from my subconscious in the past 6 months to become the focus of my work at this time. The connection between nature and technology has once again entered into the concepts I am working out in images. (see "The Magical Mystery Stones: <a href="http://dawnpatelart.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-magical-mystery-stones.html">June 2013 archives: Magical Mystery Stones</a> )</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4kvGLi07hbC9c4RApsdEsvDl0PDsREpezAr4N_ceJ4F6CxpVjzAXDyIJkKVWfUAmsBDLBZf0tk46ofySK9kCp_eb8grNhjbyW7LcikdAxlb8uoLReNcqXlr36F7wcmNQrKCVajkgKdjM/s1600/Sentience-+The+Living+Tree+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4kvGLi07hbC9c4RApsdEsvDl0PDsREpezAr4N_ceJ4F6CxpVjzAXDyIJkKVWfUAmsBDLBZf0tk46ofySK9kCp_eb8grNhjbyW7LcikdAxlb8uoLReNcqXlr36F7wcmNQrKCVajkgKdjM/s1600/Sentience-+The+Living+Tree+copy.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Mind, nature and technology... the Sentient Worlds that will unfold in the ongoing stories of The Sentient Beings. Stay tuned.....</div>
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D697876541846230017%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F1.bp.blogspot.com%252F-nDAzxKqaTZQ%252FVLAfP4TkDSI%252FAAAAAAAAAqk%252Fey00v9mfYdY%252Fs1600%252FSentience-%25252BCatch%25252Band%25252BRelease%25252Bcopy.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 193px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1599px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D697876541846230017%23editor%2Fsrc%3Ddashboard&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F1.bp.blogspot.com%252F-nDAzxKqaTZQ%252FVLAfP4TkDSI%252FAAAAAAAAAqk%252Fey00v9mfYdY%252Fs1600%252FSentience-%25252BCatch%25252Band%25252BRelease%25252Bcopy.jpg%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 193px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1599px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-1402466226492598142014-12-31T13:17:00.001-08:002014-12-31T13:17:57.631-08:00Sentient Speech<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Today it occurs to me that the language of the Sentient Beings has to be poetry</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjto30XRzMYxGtwBT18uaI89AxAAo_CS16XhZVT32oQU6SMQZa_xXVLh_faUtddS4VW61rTZZMeQu7c-6I-zyu890Vqr5bU9fVd5-tI06fPAB5SWf2jaJnWTfWlycsjCLeraG7Q1ZreuLZ4/s1600/IMG_0835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjto30XRzMYxGtwBT18uaI89AxAAo_CS16XhZVT32oQU6SMQZa_xXVLh_faUtddS4VW61rTZZMeQu7c-6I-zyu890Vqr5bU9fVd5-tI06fPAB5SWf2jaJnWTfWlycsjCLeraG7Q1ZreuLZ4/s1600/IMG_0835.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Work in Progress: "Chances of Drowning"</td></tr>
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But I argue, "I'm not a poet." </div>
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Well, I'm not a good one.</div>
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I don't know what to do.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFhuTGruZh1HYZJ-Vo0nEIrLWnr7zhnUDtAjb_Yz7sFlS_T8BGC8Na8sSZcLdWoMF2b3H96R4zITCUIXMeqmcdJLHZl_33KE2S1TMIUDOEDyaiPUlvQ-fE4HIJqStppBbAjYGk9iJcFDF/s1600/IMG_0776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFhuTGruZh1HYZJ-Vo0nEIrLWnr7zhnUDtAjb_Yz7sFlS_T8BGC8Na8sSZcLdWoMF2b3H96R4zITCUIXMeqmcdJLHZl_33KE2S1TMIUDOEDyaiPUlvQ-fE4HIJqStppBbAjYGk9iJcFDF/s1600/IMG_0776.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A Pigeon Post."</td></tr>
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Just sit back</div>
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and listen</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsPqrGCw2sNNBp67r6kaxpewJXqfjHKZYKOqzrIIPhQeLloWtLtCiNhO1gLGoY92qUP5uSSn21aptzYebFhfHeD_VYCThnJjfR1hc2aKjA9G8HRUOaxoaaVyhDby6oTBOjKU5TqkRkder/s1600/IMG_0833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsPqrGCw2sNNBp67r6kaxpewJXqfjHKZYKOqzrIIPhQeLloWtLtCiNhO1gLGoY92qUP5uSSn21aptzYebFhfHeD_VYCThnJjfR1hc2aKjA9G8HRUOaxoaaVyhDby6oTBOjKU5TqkRkder/s1600/IMG_0833.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In progress: "A Hurricane Steed."</td></tr>
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So I try it.</div>
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And I think, "Yes! That's how they come to me!"</div>
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All I have to do is let the words come to me, just like the pictures.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7VlvUNmb9WcIxELZBHDmAa4qtv9y5-FFVLLnzmBkVmxJjKS8mhGxSyVjcQ3ftIeZbFd5gnXKnkbPT-7SVYfIawjwB515imFAsX7IOvMgZJwSRI4KsB9y294o5Mu382WpdVXhl8jXU6kj/s1600/IMG_0780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7VlvUNmb9WcIxELZBHDmAa4qtv9y5-FFVLLnzmBkVmxJjKS8mhGxSyVjcQ3ftIeZbFd5gnXKnkbPT-7SVYfIawjwB515imFAsX7IOvMgZJwSRI4KsB9y294o5Mu382WpdVXhl8jXU6kj/s1600/IMG_0780.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Secret Substitute Smell"</td></tr>
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You're Still Talking</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Gqqmx1mvAht3dkHK_0dhZEGdpNkmlAPM6bx_kqF0wtCXWdAiYc_B6ZunZDFfV3jBXVOwfWPwS1LiPvV3VZ4JgNutyl0NsPNu8yljlnFYG9JaxORYr_KBSi7jDulFZgmdE6EVjhh0q0m9/s1600/IMG_0738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Gqqmx1mvAht3dkHK_0dhZEGdpNkmlAPM6bx_kqF0wtCXWdAiYc_B6ZunZDFfV3jBXVOwfWPwS1LiPvV3VZ4JgNutyl0NsPNu8yljlnFYG9JaxORYr_KBSi7jDulFZgmdE6EVjhh0q0m9/s1600/IMG_0738.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"City Jackal"</td></tr>
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So I sit back.</div>
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Two words, that's all.</div>
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Just two words.</div>
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Over and over.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTDK2953MnXWM3rIqMDC4amSndW-f6V7rJo31MuRY7N41HPuDO8cJdTc7MwOXymk6qll_oQ96ZIkqHSU4xTAVMA6d9UdgLqMPI-ZiLDLyQHsOP0dM5jxbe_lwpp0wxv-isKyoFBG2cZq4E/s1600/IMG_0836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTDK2953MnXWM3rIqMDC4amSndW-f6V7rJo31MuRY7N41HPuDO8cJdTc7MwOXymk6qll_oQ96ZIkqHSU4xTAVMA6d9UdgLqMPI-ZiLDLyQHsOP0dM5jxbe_lwpp0wxv-isKyoFBG2cZq4E/s1600/IMG_0836.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Progress: "Fare Well"</td></tr>
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Thank You</div>
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Thank You</div>
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Thank You</div>
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D697876541846230017%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dheader&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-k-87iA-ZrUQ%252FVKRlI3fKI5I%252FAAAAAAAAAqI%252Ft4tJDaUDNFg%252Fs1600%252FIMG_0836.JPG%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 153px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 2777px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D697876541846230017%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dheader&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F4.bp.blogspot.com%252F-k-87iA-ZrUQ%252FVKRlI3fKI5I%252FAAAAAAAAAqI%252Ft4tJDaUDNFg%252Fs1600%252FIMG_0836.JPG%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 153px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 2777px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-82998770043399707902014-12-15T16:54:00.000-08:002014-12-15T16:54:37.376-08:00Sentient Beings among the Humans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The world of the Sentient Beings has always been here. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxIgw21m9_l8WoigvNWMw0nTkslbhh7cmxBz1MyaYjpDUerqHef55L3Sk3WOLFjDpTXjzRCCziKsrrl6P7mry0ikN2p5ALFOLwa11eRGtY3i3eqjoBOqOb72yL8vZfAyQaYIZKk3Kfl4o/s1600/bird+and+claw+sidewalk+heart+and+Thoreau+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxIgw21m9_l8WoigvNWMw0nTkslbhh7cmxBz1MyaYjpDUerqHef55L3Sk3WOLFjDpTXjzRCCziKsrrl6P7mry0ikN2p5ALFOLwa11eRGtY3i3eqjoBOqOb72yL8vZfAyQaYIZKk3Kfl4o/s1600/bird+and+claw+sidewalk+heart+and+Thoreau+copy.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_tiuZhvW2ZIaNKLcYUvRPCkIQ62uBpkdWuK_yNrxtoTkSGyHbXlVcbe-zWaKbNIGv3QVhA5ZSsjarmcCUYWmuPfKcAv1x9ygEQfl4vyS5IyOo2YeIm11-KZfvLFzYxdRgpa4c6dWoXtt5/s1600/Masquerade+with+bird+and+claw+Wip+with+words+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_tiuZhvW2ZIaNKLcYUvRPCkIQ62uBpkdWuK_yNrxtoTkSGyHbXlVcbe-zWaKbNIGv3QVhA5ZSsjarmcCUYWmuPfKcAv1x9ygEQfl4vyS5IyOo2YeIm11-KZfvLFzYxdRgpa4c6dWoXtt5/s1600/Masquerade+with+bird+and+claw+Wip+with+words+copy.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's just that we don't always see.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The Sentient Beings were in danger of becoming invisible to all. Jackal turned himself into a man, and tried to convince the people that these beings exist, are all around us.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkuLq7Lfm1kBfsf-Y6iMDW2JuRAqc1DxmGjRwnuhfYOKrqUpwJMr0UHd-8EPrQQnsZoPNinXDWfhw7tNpWe32Tc5sGxeZS8wtfzhyphenhyphenVkNrw3sGgFJ2_DSz3J7JyPDjyBTdEuYD-crZVK1Q/s1600/cutouts+sentient+beings+copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkuLq7Lfm1kBfsf-Y6iMDW2JuRAqc1DxmGjRwnuhfYOKrqUpwJMr0UHd-8EPrQQnsZoPNinXDWfhw7tNpWe32Tc5sGxeZS8wtfzhyphenhyphenVkNrw3sGgFJ2_DSz3J7JyPDjyBTdEuYD-crZVK1Q/s1600/cutouts+sentient+beings+copy.jpeg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jackal can still be recognized by the hole where the moon jumped through him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_T3Cf765aiZZwwswPExjv9F5zb1qDcgIDu-_yLr2suPSEA7cD1unQFht5K4YPD9xBPa9NGIptgD6xSrxQoQvZzWStrYT3gcE14Vd2kNSob3-wW80qVGqnd8YSIp-DI8IRuGr15HZJXmh/s1600/Sentient+Being+lands+in+the+alley+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_T3Cf765aiZZwwswPExjv9F5zb1qDcgIDu-_yLr2suPSEA7cD1unQFht5K4YPD9xBPa9NGIptgD6xSrxQoQvZzWStrYT3gcE14Vd2kNSob3-wW80qVGqnd8YSIp-DI8IRuGr15HZJXmh/s1600/Sentient+Being+lands+in+the+alley+copy.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When Jackal vanished from the Sentient Scape, the introvert traveled to earth to find him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
It was all quite a mess for awhile. Most humans mocked Jackal for his outlandish stories, and they could not see the world he pointed out to them.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Introvert landed in a dark alley far from her intended destination and found herself alone in a hostile world.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And Masquerade knew this was his moment, his one chance to accomplish plans, plans that were born out of greed and fear.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-23217117770671273562014-12-13T19:32:00.002-08:002014-12-13T19:35:45.887-08:00Masquerade<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="vk_ans" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large !important; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span data-dobid="hdw">mas·quer·ade</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<div class="lr_dct_ent_ph" style="font-size: large;">
<span class="lr_dct_ph">ˌmaskəˈrād/</span><span class="lr_dct_spkr lr_dct_spkr_off" data-log-string="pronunciation-icon-click" jsaction="dob.p" style="display: inline-block; height: 16px; margin: 0px 2px 4px 5px; opacity: 0.55; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;" title="Listen"><input height="14" src="data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAAA4AAAAOCAQAAAC1QeVaAAAAi0lEQVQokWNgQAYyQFzGsIJBnwED8DNcBpK+DM8YfjMUokqxMRxg+A9m8TJsBLLSEFKMDCuBAv/hCncxfGWQhUn2gaVAktkMXkBSHmh0OwNU8D9csoHhO4MikN7BcAGb5H+GYiDdCTQYq2QubkkkY/E6CLtXdiJ7BTMQMnAHXxFm6IICvhwY8AYQLgCw2U9d90B8BAAAAABJRU5ErkJggg==" style="font-size: small;" type="image" width="14" /></span></div>
<div>
<div class="lr_dct_sf_h" style="padding-top: 10px;">
<i>noun</i></div>
<div class="xpdxpnd vk_gy" data-mh="-1" style="-webkit-transition: max-height 0.3s; color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important; max-height: 0px; overflow: hidden; transition: max-height 0.3s;">
<b></b><b></b></div>
<ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div class="lr_dct_sf_sen vk_txt" style="font-size: small !important; padding-top: 10px;">
<div style="float: left;">
<strong>1</strong>. </div>
<div style="margin-left: 20px;">
<div>
<div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">
a false show or pretense.</div>
<div class="vk_gy" style="color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important;">
"his masquerade ended when he was arrested"</div>
<div>
<table class="vk_tbl vk_gy" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="lr_dct_nyms_ttl" style="font-style: italic; padding: 0px 3px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap;">synonyms:</td><td style="padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+pretense&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCEQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">pretense</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+deception&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCIQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">deception</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+pose&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCMQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">pose</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+act&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCQQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">act</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+front&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCUQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">front</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+facade&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCYQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">facade</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+disguise&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCcQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">disguise</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+dissimulation&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCgQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">dissimulation</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+bluff&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCkQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">bluff</a>, play-acting, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+make-believe&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCoQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">make-believe</a>;<br />
<div style="display: inline;">
<div style="display: inline;">
<div style="display: inline;">
<i style="padding-right: 4px;">informal</i><a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+put-on&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CCwQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">put-on</a></div>
<div class="vk_gy">
"he couldn't keep up the masquerade much longer"</div>
</div>
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin-left: -13px;">
<ul style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<li class="xpdxpnd" data-mh="-1" style="-webkit-transition: max-height 0.3s; border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; max-height: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; transition: max-height 0.3s;"><div class="lr_dct_sf_subsen" style="display: list-item; font-size: xx-small; list-style-type: disc; margin-left: 25px; padding-top: 5px;">
<div style="font-size: small;">
<div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">
</div>
<div class="vk_gy" style="color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
<li class="xpdxpnd" data-mh="-1" style="-webkit-transition: max-height 0.3s; border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; max-height: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; transition: max-height 0.3s;"><div class="lr_dct_sf_subsen" style="display: list-item; font-size: xx-small; list-style-type: disc; margin-left: 25px; padding-top: 5px;">
<div style="font-size: small;">
<div>
<span class="lr_dct_lbl_blk lr_dct_lbl_box" style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #777777; display: inline-block; font-size: xx-small; margin-right: 6px; margin-top: -1px; padding: 4px 6px; text-transform: uppercase;"></span></div>
<div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">
</div>
<div>
<table class="vk_tbl vk_gy" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="lr_dct_nyms_ttl" style="font-style: italic; padding: 0px 3px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap;"></td><td style="padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+masked+ball&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CC0Q_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"></a><a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+masque&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CC4Q_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"></a><br />
<div style="display: inline;">
<div style="display: inline;">
<a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+cosplay&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CDAQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"></a></div>
<div class="vk_gy">
</div>
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
</ol>
</div>
<div>
<div class="lr_dct_sf_h" style="padding-top: 10px;">
<i>verb</i></div>
<div class="xpdxpnd vk_gy" data-mh="-1" style="-webkit-transition: max-height 0.3s; color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important; max-height: 0px; overflow: hidden; transition: max-height 0.3s;">
<b></b><b></b><b></b><b></b><b></b></div>
<ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div class="lr_dct_sf_sen vk_txt" style="font-size: small !important; padding-top: 10px;">
<div style="float: left;">
<strong>1</strong>. </div>
<div style="margin-left: 20px;">
<div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">
pretend to be someone one is not.</div>
<div class="vk_gy" style="color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important;">
"a journalist <b>masquerading as</b> a man in distress"</div>
<div>
<table class="vk_tbl vk_gy" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="lr_dct_nyms_ttl" style="font-style: italic; padding: 0px 3px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap;">synonyms:</td><td style="padding: 0px;">pretend to be, pose as, pass oneself off as, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=define+impersonate&sa=X&ei=LAONVKOoLoK5yQTE3YC4DA&ved=0CDEQ_SowAA" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">impersonate</a>, disguise oneself as<br />
<div style="display: inline;">
<div style="display: inline;">
<div class="vk_gy">
"a woman <b>masquerading as</b> a man"</div>
<div class="vk_gy">
</div>
<div class="vk_gy">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
</ol>
</div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQu8n9rVpvjcYxgOC-vcBdwk4UJOvVM1wddj54qxiGaQ3Ak9wqLXo89A06alA7HKREE4OTtX9qILk4wNmFWKJSNfPs2LcNTP6-ySXQ5OtUSHlLZEigQM6t6JOl-Tw_dsnDlhHO4vmMs36B/s1600/Okri's%2Bbeast%2B%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQu8n9rVpvjcYxgOC-vcBdwk4UJOvVM1wddj54qxiGaQ3Ak9wqLXo89A06alA7HKREE4OTtX9qILk4wNmFWKJSNfPs2LcNTP6-ySXQ5OtUSHlLZEigQM6t6JOl-Tw_dsnDlhHO4vmMs36B/s1600/Okri's%2Bbeast%2B%2Bcopy.jpg" height="640" width="628" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He carries a large machete, and hides his stick behinds his back.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
What is he hiding? And how does he fit in with the sensitive and benevolent Sentient Beings? This character, "Masquerade" has enough pernicious qualities to make us all worried. He pretends to be much more dangerous than he is, but he is more dangerous than most. What stories lie behind the pretense of this creature? They will unfold, when Masquerade confronts the Jackal about her own secrets. <br />
<div>
Masquerade meets Jackal in two lifetimes, once before she has met The Introvert, and once after. As you can imagine, the results are completely different. Two identical encounters with vastly different results. </div>
<div>
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<div>
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<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Varela Round', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">
I hope you are enjoying the story of the Sentient Beings. This story has no beginning and no end, so you can join in at anytime.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Varela Round', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Varela Round', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">
You can also follow the story of Jackal, the Introvert and Masquerade on facebook or Instagram, where I sometimes post as I go along.</div>
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-64599626485269381492014-12-12T06:57:00.001-08:002014-12-12T14:00:38.537-08:00Jackal Meets Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Sentient Beings: Jackal and the Story of Intuition</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Jackal lives her life with few enemies and becomes a trusting soul.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFP5e4lHCXKv3DLlj9TeoNMC7aucps2fcxYbvmE2pKNfQyiPNKWxNX3KXMZJBTco_BzgqahOwl2Hqm4Tyyuk_M64xNW4uZS0-zZgFyhtkkYW_EvT6qFbKCait9Gt054SypLm5oA4ZRQKiu/s1600/Jackal+meets+Man+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFP5e4lHCXKv3DLlj9TeoNMC7aucps2fcxYbvmE2pKNfQyiPNKWxNX3KXMZJBTco_BzgqahOwl2Hqm4Tyyuk_M64xNW4uZS0-zZgFyhtkkYW_EvT6qFbKCait9Gt054SypLm5oA4ZRQKiu/s1600/Jackal+meets+Man+copy.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jackal meets man, and wants to play.</td></tr>
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When close, she senses something dangerous, and backs off. </div>
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In another lifetime Jackal was a human. </div>
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She knows the ways of man, but unaware of her memories, she relies on her senses.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sensing something more, she backs away.</td></tr>
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Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-697876541846230017.post-39530948922710335522014-12-11T08:18:00.002-08:002014-12-11T08:20:48.320-08:00From Dreaming to Dancing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;">More Jackal... she is Dancing Jackal, after a long journey via magic arrow. </span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;">During the long and reckless journey she is pierced by the arrow</span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and has to land in a canyon where there is no escape. </span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dancing Jackal does not have the patience and reserve that Dreaming Jackal has, </span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;">but she shines like the moon.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiX1-EeIDODi7vw_CjzKmyJ2HGkh71sW-c-CG3w22E8pqPu2FSzViAgLBGlOF-6GTU2nmJCGr8jYFJLiyB5LNpTIxIXSaC7TyjZRuMHSb3TANY_dVkIyFEbZgNbornThkxKOB19NcjfrUK/s1600/IMG_0557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiX1-EeIDODi7vw_CjzKmyJ2HGkh71sW-c-CG3w22E8pqPu2FSzViAgLBGlOF-6GTU2nmJCGr8jYFJLiyB5LNpTIxIXSaC7TyjZRuMHSb3TANY_dVkIyFEbZgNbornThkxKOB19NcjfrUK/s1600/IMG_0557.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: small;">While trapped in the canyon, with only a few hours of sunlight, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> Dreaming Jackal noticed the light of the moon during the dark night, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">and became greedy for more. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">This makes Dreaming Jackal a servant of the moon.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilM8ehU-dhY73nRrX-u2nynOCKAUtGZLGm1HWhHVEy_55oMO1beJk_LS-blPQm5PzKgjTiGhVwbzD480VVAYGAZVdru62w2l592gZsqehckP-dp2GS3nIEFytlUecdEbipPMrWfaqSC5Nn/s1600/IMG_0545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilM8ehU-dhY73nRrX-u2nynOCKAUtGZLGm1HWhHVEy_55oMO1beJk_LS-blPQm5PzKgjTiGhVwbzD480VVAYGAZVdru62w2l592gZsqehckP-dp2GS3nIEFytlUecdEbipPMrWfaqSC5Nn/s1600/IMG_0545.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">She tried to jump through the moon, but the moon jumped through her.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">After the moon jumped through Jackal she glowed all night and hid in a cave all day. <br />Now she is trapped in darkness all day long.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeGSWejT3_1Uc4TIR9C9bxqzCyIsiJXk9pdFqcR8iPCxkofEFOFuV1l3XgAJGl97q8_BQ__wn2d4ZET80V8S7srP47YHLNEPNHJWRLNp2J1oOXdI5lfcbLwVXVJGV3MYOT8430LkJCHmN/s1600/IMG_0555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeGSWejT3_1Uc4TIR9C9bxqzCyIsiJXk9pdFqcR8iPCxkofEFOFuV1l3XgAJGl97q8_BQ__wn2d4ZET80V8S7srP47YHLNEPNHJWRLNp2J1oOXdI5lfcbLwVXVJGV3MYOT8430LkJCHmN/s1600/IMG_0555.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Having suffered many days in darkness Jackal became frustrated with the the silence, <br />and learned to play the rhythms of the moon.</span></td></tr>
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I hope you are enjoying the story of the Sentient Beings. This story has no beginning and no end, so you can join in at anytime.</div>
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These are drawings from my sketchbook; some will be made available as prints on Society6 </div>
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at Dawn Patel Art: http://society6.com/dawnpatel</div>
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You can also follow the story of Jackal on facebook or Instagram, where I post as I go along.</div>
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<br />Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04110820905964978622noreply@blogger.com3