Faint whisper from far away Finland.

water01Swans fly through my head,

the lake lies quietly inside my chest.

Listen, for you can hear

old songs drifting slowly over the plains,

hymn and chants, nurturing milk for souls.

By |2017-05-02T12:53:25-04:00January 11th, 2015|

Notes from Finland

Fin Window

Swedish- Finnish poet Edith Södergran stated that she does not write poems, she creates herself; and her poems are the way to herself. I hope that my month here in Finland will be just that. A time to create myself. Already these cold and damp mornings made me visit dark corners of my mind, that has been long abandoned. Looking ahead into the branched cloaked darkness of the forest, I wonder what I will find.

when all the golden birds
fly home across the blue deep water;
On shore I sit rapt in its scattering glitter;
departure rustles through the trees.
This farewell is vast and separation draws close,
but reunion, that also is certain.
My head on my arm I fall asleep easily.
On my eyes a mother’s breath,
from her mouth to my heart:
sleep, child, and dream now the sun is gone.—
Edith Södergran
By |2017-05-02T12:55:34-04:00November 2nd, 2014|

between rock and water

When working on the visuals of my project THE BALLAST I was thinking of the peculiarities of the weight of art. The artist carries a unique burden in which he has to work within the world and at the same time has to seek entry points into new worlds. It reminds me of the scripture that advises one to, “be in the world but not of this world.” The artist desperately seeks to carry out the seemingly impossible task of relating simultaneously to his object and subject, and yet being neither subject nor object. It is akin to looking into a mirror and seeing yourself as the object, and as you are thinking of yourself immediately you become the subject (and vice-versa): “now you see me, now you don’t”. It is within this paradox of rigidity and fluidity that I question our place of balance. In THE BALLAST I have taken the point of view not of the experience of a solidified state or a state of fluidity, but of being a witness to the struggle and the feat of being in flux between the two.

Despite the apparent impermeability of a rock and its ability to brace itself against the elements, it slowly and imperceptibly erodes. A rock also presents functionality and stability. If I pile enough rocks in the belly of a seagoing vessel, it will stay below the water level, a compensator for buoyancy. On another plane, a rock brings forth life, if one accepts that our planet is a functional, yet slowly eroding rock. We cannot separate ourselves from the environment we exist in, and on. But as we cling to this rock of ages we are also floating in space, just as the rocks in the hull of an oceangoing vessel – we have learned to float through time and the universe. As any survivalist knows, with nothing to cling to in a rapidly moving body of water, we need to give ourselves over to the stream to stay buoyant and prevent drowning – exactly the situation of faith. But this weight that brings us movement can also bring forth stagnation (or worse) if the load keeps accumulating and the liberty of continuance is stripped away. What is the path of liberation when the ballast is pulling you under the water level? The Buddhists believe that achieving liberation is two-fold, by letting go and letting go into something. Letting go into something, perhaps, has less to do with willing or creating than it does with allowing. For example, leaving home at a young age is akin to surrendering to a rapidly moving body of water, to allow yourself new, future possibilities – letting go, into something.

Allowing myself as an artist to have faith and giving over to my subconscious I can let go of the right amount of weight to keep myself relevant and sturdy in the given moment. To keep this ambiguous balance, I believe one has to, “keep standing in the middle of all this”, to be tucked and pulled without stopping observing what is tucking and pulling you.

THE BALLAST is built from these intermingling dualities of real experiences and it touches upon the domestic as well as the epic. How when we are in flux, our observations of the world are renewed from any new point as it can be regarded as the center, and where all positions are relative. A transcendental trickery where we can paradoxically deconstruct boundaries and unify all divisions. Thomas Tranströmer spoke of the effect of art on the artist and viewer as, ”a house of glass standing on a slope; rocks are flying, rocks are rolling. The rocks roll straight through the house but every pane of glass is still whole.”

By |2017-07-12T13:37:42-04:00September 14th, 2014|

to learn; to give

From Notebook – Miami Nov 2013

Today is the first day of Winter

and I saw a black angel

bracing the swell and foam

of the ocean.

During the night the moon spilled its yellow fodder into my soul,

purifying me of the coward deep inside.

I watched the pool filled with water around your cold metal feet

and my soul simultaneously filled with a desire…

But more importantly on that solstice day.

I made myself a promise…

to embrace my talent

to achieve the impossible

to grow exponentially

to open up and let my growth show

to stand proud

to give it all

and when I laid down, my back ached and my feet throbbed

I fell asleep and the last

image was that of the blurry moon

cascading off your bowed bronze head.

By |2017-05-02T12:57:05-04:00April 9th, 2014|

Paradise fallen

aj2

In a garden of palm and fruit

the Pansies and Snapdragons

trimmed the bedding

my white child hands with care placed

my dolls on the lawn so that together we

could watch the sun and clouds gliding by, then

I saw you

your young black body already sullen over

weed and dirt

the proud mouth concaved

you’re strong back a door

closed from me

always moving away while fulfilling your duties

and as I sat under the Mulberry tree

with my purple-stained feet

try moving closer

mesmerized by your golden hands

I imagined they belong to a Lion tamer

the wielder of a silver sword fighting

Python with Baobab bodies

or a Prince from a faraway land

that I will one day visit and announce

my past adventures with their now King

every day I waited for your arrival

which was quiet

every day I will move a bit closer

for approaching the son of a King was

adventurous and full of riddles

a treacherous path

with rivers full of Crocodiles with sticky long tongues

curled up like a Chameleon tail

ready to grab and twine around my tiny feet

dragging me into the darkest deepest rivers,

with skies filled with hungry Vultures

camouflaged as clouds

ready to snatch me up into the air

to disappear forever into the bellies of their chicks

unknown my quest

you raked the dry and you trimmed the dead

with a dark bowed head

the day finally arrived when I slain all the monsters to reach you

and I was going to grab those golden hands and

flew up to the treetops and lived together

on berries filled with honey

you turned around

black eyes filled with beams of

emotions for which I did not have yet a name

an epileptic drum of words

run and spit from your raw tongue

your hands white knuckled a rock

and as this piece of accusing fossil

comet the air towards my head

birds got still

flowers got shorter

animals lost their voices

toys became plastic

and when my mother tucked me into bed

that night concerned for my tears

she wanted to know why?

I kept silent

for a storm was always hiding behind the

beautiful hills of the Water Mountains

For I know now that something wasn’t right.

By |2017-05-02T12:57:05-04:00November 15th, 2013|
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