The fantasy foremost: is I am still at it, making my drawings, living the life of my ostensible identity, doing what I do, being who I am: an artist. August 2010 approaches. And so too September, the month of my birthday, my 82nd year. The momentum of this daily work I engage are stylus pen drawings made in my store-bought drawing books, acid free, archival -filling pages of what are pictures made with lines that are closed loops, geometric... That as the lines represent plane shapes, trivial manifolds, experiments, improvisations. Each is dated, signed, identifying the time of day and where I happen to be at the time I've been doing this. I leave each page intact. Some, I'll come back to and add some ink or color marker stains. The whole excedes the parts, seems alive, has that 'tensegrity' that Bucky Fuller coined the word so as to reinvent with a new word what it is doing. Each drawing is a doing of something that gesturally implies such as is indescribable in words. You simply know it when you're looking at it that you are seeing it. It is a 'I-do-not-know-what.' It is, like Frankensein's monster, ALIVE!
I upload this image an open 2 pages in my drawing book. The image floats. On the right page it is there, the drawing.
A something that is structural, sculptural, sturdy,
pentagonal, of pentagons, filled with pentagons
containing connecting, Enclosed-looping
Curved shapes
the lower one empty, the upper one filled with hugesharp edge 5 gons right to, but not quite to its edges.
Insides. Outsides. The same pen line yet not the same on the inside as the outside
White, ephemeral is actually the paper pages I draw on. Here in cyberspace it is so much 'Infinity'.
How do you imagine it? Vast? Submicroscopic?
No knowing.
Unknowable, unknowable but for my fantasizing.
Seeing it here surrounded in black... More mysterious still.
Lucky me you're looking at it!
What do you make of it?
What of it would you like to know if you'd ask me?