ART, the sexually imbued creative instinct, instilled liberally in man, is that inescapable incomprehensibly undomesticated part of our nature which allows no imitation but reminds us constantly that, "unless we find and express our natural and convenient original sacred artistic heritage, we will never be satisfied". With an incessant mocking inner voice, taunting and accusing, we try every available outer distraction and apparent entertainment to gratify but to no avail. Nothing but sheer artistic authenticity will satisfy. We know instinctively we will not be released from the constant nagging dull headaches, restless sleepless nights and consuming crankiness until our soul's mistress is wooed, acknowledged and articulated. Her vacillating ways are unmistakably capricious, ruthless, and completely unforgivable. Her ever pervading impetuous spastic force of unconquerable ingenious surges demand the last breath of our undivided attention and every ounce of our solicitous blood's respect without recompense. She invades without warning or invitation. She wields her unyielding hypnotically embellished artistic power, injecting into our mind's irresistible passion the very blood tinged need, in our veins to create something, as our hands long/beg for articulate sacred expression.
Willing bones in our fingers plead/weep for discharge to carry out the work she so disinterestedly demands. Nobody's concubine: Her first name is Passion; Her last Execution. Art weaves the omnipotent emotional indulgent fiber into the deflated human being operating as the unduly masked ill-defined impetus that drives him/her mad. Elusive innate disproportionately placed motivation lulls, lures, caresses, invites, snares, beguiles, woos, pampers, intrigues, seduces and then impartially destroys what is left of the fragile pride ridden self-image.
Hopelessly obsessed by her intoxicating pleasure filled fragrance, driven into realms of unimaginable ecstasy, shattered into filaments of inexpressible delight while never being able to embrace, much less tame, the torridly wild fire she ignites, we stand in awe of what {when we graciously submit) create.
We, as artists, are impoverished and embellished by her effervescent prodigality. Incapable of retaining her, we teeter on the brink of insanity hoping for a mere glance of recognition. ART selects as it will, establishes, provokes, and maintains an intoxicatingly feverish impudent game of tease, all the while (day/night) running rampant though the unfathomable recesses of our minds according to her whims and fancies.
She is incapable of being coerced, subdued or spoiled. Completely unmanageable, she's subversively fickle and will not tolerate being domesticated. What she, at times, coyly allows us to imagine through her, we form into pervasive existence. Nothing lies outside the boundaries of ART. She reigns supreme. Not one invisible speck of dust is without having been penetrated {inhaled and exhaled} by artistic creation. From the ordinary to the sublime, we are all submerged in the multifaceted sensual arms and willfull bosom of the unmistakable goddess of ART.
Sensually caressed and mesmerizingly enveloped by her loving embrace, we sense the erotic beating of "ecstasy's exclaim', eager, willing, subdued; we silently smile submitting to our soul's surrender, knowing fully she will do with us as she wills, anyway she wills.
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