Comfortably, screaming, struggling with the story given us, we live in histories
inherited; in joy bestowed, or fought, fraught with fear, engaged in hopeful beginnings, squeaking delight, squirming our way out of a hostile womb,
weeping, still. History claimed, unclaimed, with ease, in anguish; this, we say, is my story.
3 comments:
I've spent a lot of time thinking about this piece; about both the illustration and the text. If I may offer some thoughts?
While the illustration is arresting (and, for me, a little disturbing), it is the text that most captures my attention.
Your skill...no, perhaps better to say your artfulness in expressing so much in so few words, in getting right to the heart of the matter is so very evident in this post.
I think, to read your words, to most fully appreciate your intent, one must see that every word has gravity, every phrase presents an image, and that the whole is a complex collage; a single, unified and very powerful conclusion about the experience of living life.
And, while I so very much appreciate the artistry, it is the philosophy that strikes me most deeply. I read, and re-read, and feel, and think about life; my life, my story. And this takes me to many other places, to many other feelings, to many other thoughts.
And I think, this is why art matters.
Love the writing… What is an image without a story waiting to be told?
Thank you for reading, guys :--)
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