Art is angelic. This is no mild descriptor. I'm not talking about angels in the the popular way. My imagery is far from the greeting card cherubs with dimpled bottoms or church window baroque figures swathed in serenity. The historic texts about angels reveal them as disruptive, potent beings. Contact with them left the beholder shaken and amazed to the bone. Abraham was alarmed, preferring they not even visit his tent if instead they might please go bother someone else. I know the feeling. Art has its own vantage point. Whence it comes and where it goes is like a map that only makes sense of from the air, rather than on the ground where perspective is organized by your immediate take on the surrounds.
I armwrestle in my relationship with it and have since I was a child. It didn't always obey my mental intent. Dori Lohr, a painter turned enamelist who I knew in school told me early on, "Don't fuss about your art when you are young. Do your music first. You have to do it first because of the instrument. It has a more limited lifespan, the voice. Paint will always be there. Metal will always be there." I was perplexed and had no concept of what she meant. I did all forms, but took her advice and did the music while I could. Now that I am deaf, imagine my relief that the angel of visual art is not a jealous lover.
But as angels do, it brought omens. I found a gouache sketch I made in graduate school. I had always wondered why the figure wobbled on unsteady legs, why the legs and ears were both green. Now that I understand the link between hearing and balance, the mysterious double features directed by the eighth cranal nerve, I know and it takes my breath away. What surprises has the Archangel Art brought to you?
