Art is an interesting gig. I don't think that what Jackson saw in me was exactly what I saw in me. Not that I look all that often anyway. But it's all on so many other levels isn't it then? That unless I knew what the artist was feeling at the time or perhaps how I intersected his world at that moment. And how that juxtaposes with the redundancy and the negativity being counterbalanced by the redeeming quality of the inner life. Which is on a knifes edge with reality. As in regards to the minds needless and pointless yearning for a lost event or love that was never meant to be in the first place.
But the mind only carries out it's orders to imagine that what could have been will always exist on another level.
As water flowing from a pipe into a well and the echo that is constantly being reinforced by the spent feelings that co-join the existential angst of the reality of being. And the reminder of no matter how often I shout down the well, there is only the reply of fitful sleep stirred by dreams and unorganized thought. And the experience of watching a nameless horse running on a railway track at night, to a dark cloud on the horizon. The cloud is surrounded by a carousel of painted horses running careless of direction or of destination. There is above it flashing lights that say “Welcome”.
I'm not sure I like the way Jacksons art affects me. Still I am spellbound by it.
Terry
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From @twheato