Color the world
Artist Statement
Give me a color and I’ll paint the world.
So many to see and yet to be seen.
So much to show, to tell.
The colors of the wind are flying before my eyes.
We live on color, on sight.
Without it our understanding of life is lost.
A color for every season, a color for every mood.
Each day the colors surround us.
Many things to see, too much to perceive.
And the colors are lost.
Bring back the color, bring back the light.
And all will be well, for we thrive on color.
With our colors we paint the world.
Give me a color and I’ll paint the world.
So many to see and yet to be seen.
So much to show, to tell.
The colors of the wind are flying before my eyes.
We live on color, on sight.
Without it our understanding of life is lost.
A color for every season, a color for every mood.
Each day the colors surround us.
Many things to see, too much to perceive.
And the colors are lost.
Bring back the color, bring back the light.
And all will be well, for we thrive on color.
With our colors we paint the world.
The blues
Artist Statement
Your eyes sparkle in the light
of a thousand sunny days,
of a hundred starry nights,
of the bonfires and fireworks in the summer,
and the cold, bright moon in the dead of winter.
Your eyes shine with the laughter
of a secret well kept,
of a race to the top of the grassy hill,
of nights spent up talking,
and the moments only we remember.
Your eyes reflect a thousand memories,
a lake of tears spilling over,
a sudden rush of emotion,
a feeling of desperation, of helplessness, of anger, of fear,
of passion, of love, or of disappointment.
Those eyes never cease to sparkle,
to shine and reflect.
Though I wish I could keep your eyes smiling forever,
never brimming with tears of grief and pain,
I know you are strong, you can take care of yourself.
And those eyes will be your own shining light, all of your life.
Your eyes sparkle in the light
of a thousand sunny days,
of a hundred starry nights,
of the bonfires and fireworks in the summer,
and the cold, bright moon in the dead of winter.
Your eyes shine with the laughter
of a secret well kept,
of a race to the top of the grassy hill,
of nights spent up talking,
and the moments only we remember.
Your eyes reflect a thousand memories,
a lake of tears spilling over,
a sudden rush of emotion,
a feeling of desperation, of helplessness, of anger, of fear,
of passion, of love, or of disappointment.
Those eyes never cease to sparkle,
to shine and reflect.
Though I wish I could keep your eyes smiling forever,
never brimming with tears of grief and pain,
I know you are strong, you can take care of yourself.
And those eyes will be your own shining light, all of your life.
Sun spot
Artist Statement
Travel the world, they told me. So much to experience and see. A life ahead of you free To become whatever you want it to be. So I went out, to search for more. I hoped to find where I went to explore. The quest continued through every open door But I couldn’t ever find what I was searching for. Back home in the garden on a sunny day, Wiser, sadder, and that way to stay. Suddenly made aware of the flowery breeze and warm sun rays I realized the peace I was looking for had never been far away. I simply had to open my eyes to see it, My ears to hear it, My heart to feel it. |
Long ago
Artist Statement
A book, they say. Just a book. Words on paper. Words that someone spent a lifetime writing. But, those words together have meaning. Ideas. Ideas recorded on paper make people think. What about? About life and love and loss. Pain and suffering. Magic and mystery. Ideas about valiant heroes. And ideas about sinister villains. Ideas about far off lands and adventures. Emotions. But it’s just a book. Who would want to read? Emotion can be found elsewhere, in other ways. But what is emotion without texture? The unevenness of paper and the smudge of black ink. Those things which someone worked hard to create. Ideas, paper. Words, thoughts. Just a book. A story about people who never existed and things that never happened. A book is but a lie. Stories, records, people, all nothing. Give me just a book. Give me a quiet moment and a gentle breeze. And I will sit and absorb the words, the ideas. The wisdom of past generations. I want to learn, learn about myself, learn about the world. I want to have power from knowledge. Power that nobody can take away. The words leave my head, but the emotions stay forever. The pages hold a message, a meaning, for all of humanity to benefit from. But don’t mind me. Don’t mind my words on paper, my ideas, my emotions. After all, it’s just a book. |
One of many
Artist Statement
One day, a weary bird came to rest in a tree at the edge of the forest. The tree asked the bird, “Why are you so tired? Have you been traveling for a long time? What wonders have you encountered on your journey?” The bird answered, “Yes, I have been traveling for a long time. I have seen oceans and and mountains, grand cities and sprawling deserts. But that is not why I am weary. On my travels, I have also seen these: millions of trees like you, and thousands of birds like me. There are so many like me in the world, nobody would notice if I were to disappear. I am simply one of many just like me. What is the point of life if we are all so insignificant? Surely you don’t understand, for you only know this forest. But I have seen the world, and I have learned this myself.”
The wise tree understood the bird’s hopelessness upon leaning he was so tiny compared to the world. “My friend,” the tree replied, “do not despair. It is true that we are nothing to the universe. Without you or me, life would go on, and nobody would be worse for it. Yet we are alive and that means something. To the world you are nothing, but you don’t have to be nothing to everything. Look at my leaves. I could live without one of them. The world would exist without one of them. Yet the leaves still live. Together they provide shade for the creatures below me, and food for the beetles and bugs. To those creatures, the leaves have meaning. You can make meaning for yourself in small ways through your actions every day. We are all nothing, and that cannot be changed. But there is great, great beauty in being nothing, for if you are nothing, you are free to become anything.”
And the bird was comforted greatly by the old tree’s words, and made sure to thank every last leaf and branch for letting him rest before setting off - he wanted to make sure they knew they meant something to him, even of they were nothing at all to the world.
One day, a weary bird came to rest in a tree at the edge of the forest. The tree asked the bird, “Why are you so tired? Have you been traveling for a long time? What wonders have you encountered on your journey?” The bird answered, “Yes, I have been traveling for a long time. I have seen oceans and and mountains, grand cities and sprawling deserts. But that is not why I am weary. On my travels, I have also seen these: millions of trees like you, and thousands of birds like me. There are so many like me in the world, nobody would notice if I were to disappear. I am simply one of many just like me. What is the point of life if we are all so insignificant? Surely you don’t understand, for you only know this forest. But I have seen the world, and I have learned this myself.”
The wise tree understood the bird’s hopelessness upon leaning he was so tiny compared to the world. “My friend,” the tree replied, “do not despair. It is true that we are nothing to the universe. Without you or me, life would go on, and nobody would be worse for it. Yet we are alive and that means something. To the world you are nothing, but you don’t have to be nothing to everything. Look at my leaves. I could live without one of them. The world would exist without one of them. Yet the leaves still live. Together they provide shade for the creatures below me, and food for the beetles and bugs. To those creatures, the leaves have meaning. You can make meaning for yourself in small ways through your actions every day. We are all nothing, and that cannot be changed. But there is great, great beauty in being nothing, for if you are nothing, you are free to become anything.”
And the bird was comforted greatly by the old tree’s words, and made sure to thank every last leaf and branch for letting him rest before setting off - he wanted to make sure they knew they meant something to him, even of they were nothing at all to the world.
The eye