The artist walks a tightrope. A game of balance: expression and the inconceivable. The manifest and temporal, the medium and means. Against these fundamentals, the artist plays the weight of counterbalance. The precious “Other,” the mountain that levitates beyond duality, beyond existence; he draws upon himself with an awareness that cuts like a sword.

The line reflects the perception of mind in the witness. Form is granted, color bequeathed, light and shadow arrayed in awe.  Just as a building, monumental in scale, occupies a perception of great expanse and time, not an iota of space or time is obstructed in its view.  The infinity of space, the lack of time; here, within, the artist rests.

The artist is less an “artist” and more like art itself. This understanding is where we are all headed. Nothing is lost, nothing is gained. Once you’ve seen him; simultaneously horrifying and the greatest thing that’s ever happened. The bird keeps singing… “Here and there, I rest and watch. Here and there, I rest and watch.”