Title: Sketches of Style on an Ocean of Air (Manuscript Art from original "Sketches of Style")

On the Artwork

On the Artwork

Placed in triangular formats, with oblong shapes as empty space left in the overlapping patterns of placement, emphasizing how style is a condition of emptiness or formlessness or the open-endedness aspect in expression, also known as “Sketches of Style”. It is my inkling that the freedom of empty space is the root of all creative inspiration.

“Sketches of Style” as a philosophy of creation is further pronounced where the action painting is done to reflect a kind of stop-motion photography. Whereas for example in improvisational painting or drawing, a line or brush stroke is imprinted with continuity, the blotter/drip action paint necessitates a kind of stop-motion effect, where each stroke/line requires a multitude of impressions almost resembling a kind of proto-pointillism. The perpetuity of spontaneous creativity is embedded within this mode of expression as any other, for to hold the mind in a state without any preconception is the goal, the source and the way.

Within the content of the image itself, which is a self-purported crossbreeding of a kind of “free painting” with “free writing” the sketches of style are the individual leaves or pages on which the writing and art coagulate into a whole expression, i.e. the experimental writing collection entitled, “Sketches of Style”. In the image, the pages float as if upon an open sea, where its wavering surface may bend and distort each page, blurring the paint and stretching the fabric. The water itself represents the practice of stream-of-consciousness poetics which underlies every expression. The reflection of the burning sun in the water instills in the consciousness, whether it is the spontaneous creativity of the writer or the interpretive ingenuity of the reader, a burning clarity, which exists at the edge of being obscured by the “Sketches of Style” pages or even unto greater obscurity outside of the image entirely. Yet, the sun’s reflection inevitably shines through, as visible as an intense ball of hot fire, situated under everything to further emphasize its importance as the necessary opposite of water. Are the leaves which make up “Sketches of Style” upon the water, or upon the reflection of the sun, ready to be scattered in the wind of a cloudless sky?

Preamble

Preamble

The title for this collection, “Sketches of Style” is from a dream. Also, I think even more subconsciously I am inspired by Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain” as this collection seeks to emphasize the element of style as a core aspect of the stream-of-consciousness practice of improvised writing, taking precedent over content and form.

The theory behind these writings is that style is an outpouring of perspective as perceptive choice, as in the idea that perception is based on active choice. What you see and register in your mind is based on your levels of experience and notions of reality and creativity. Because we can change our surroundings and ourselves, I begin from the source of my ancestry, which is predominantly Jewish-Mediterranean (from my maternal Grandfather) and so all of the historic and current occasions that I experience are inevitably transformed into a unique sense of self-understanding, grounded in my sensibility and aptitude toward a mytho-poetic persuasion in my perceptive and conceptive modes of experience, realized with increasing personal significance. Finally, I purport to share these realizations through my creative writing as an expression of style in formation as my own being undergoes a kind of formation that inevitably culminates into a complete obliteration of all recognizable forms unto a new way of seeing as the emergence of a unique style born from spontaneous creative practice.

Sketches on/of style: this collection highlights how my writing is not true poetry, rather sketches of style, that is, stylistic renderings of momentary instances, trails of thought, and imagistic devices to bring forth a harmonious and sometimes very dissonant balance between word, meaning and context, whether physically bound by page or voice. These are sketches and remain figments of writing, and are meant as a muse on the importance of challenging and making dynamic what is written. The basic intent is to practice an immediate and raw expression of mind, as sketches of mind to give foresight into insightful analogies between the unique experience of writing and collecting these sketches into a unified collection of writing.

Sketches of Style demands that what is important is not WHAT is written, but HOW it is written, i.e. emphasis is on form and space. Free Form demands that what is important and only important is that there is writing, where emphasis lies on spontaneity, groove, rhythmic stirring and pauses inherent in simply getting a page filled. Poetic identification in strings of words may follow the sympathies of freedom, when in fact, form is not freed unless style is present, as style acts in the life over the author, their certain style, at its blank, utmost vulnerable state, open for all to see in word sketches played over a loudspeaker of a strange mind asking too many questions.

Sketches of Style also utilizes a Free Form editing technique, taking certain phrasings and putting them together from the entire collection of writing, e.g. typing the entire collection as one body of work, going in to extract and replace passages that fit together. Is this similar to the cut-up method? It is sometimes more, sometimes less haphazard a creative process, yet intends equal spontaneous verity.

Blakean Consciousness on a Rainy Day


“thro’ tiny chinks in his cavern”
And the Blakean consciousness bleeds on
throughout history’s alive pages,
and I, 24, without dishwasher
            in heavy sky of the unusual day,
                        consecutive rain
                        and a single window,
            out from the cavernous city-dwelling page
                        into a corridor,
                                    a bound perception
                                    thro’ metal bars forgiving the balcony height
                                    to molded vegetable juice
                        and the tears of higher neighbors
                                    formed as the litter of bare living,
                                                a recycled bicycle
            and out beyond through the thinly apparent walls of Chinatown
                        broken alleyway light,
                                    a perspective insight
                                                from my Judy of mothers in Peru,
                                                and an orange  
                                               
                                                this day,

                                                tasteless,
                                                breaking as styrofoam
                                                            between bloodied teeth,
                                                            and my reddened lips
                                                            taste stomach in the nervous dark,
            looking out into the scented air, pungent
                        with an all-encasing human night,
            peering steadily to see the weary raincoats
                        and automobile phantoms
            pressing on into the hard-packed moisture of regularity,
                        and behind a vehicle, motionless,
                        a single tree’s risen purpose touches
                                    the first windows of a parallel residence,
                        and immediately at the beginning to green goodness
                                                amid the forlorn grays and subdued reds
                                                and awful greens and flushed yellows,
                                    an English sign reads,
                                                “LD WAR,”
                                                            incomplete lettering foreshadows
                                                            the re-emergent world ploy,
                                    blanket of war over the marketplace of western
                                                            eyes

(to westernize with western eyes)

                                    breaking ice out over their green windowed
                                                            homes
                                                                        whose life rings clear
                                                                        in the tasteful wind
                                                                                    bringing cold and rain

with true knowledge of her leaving,
the door closes behind you twice,
            without word,
            in absolute Love,
a vacuous throat
                        shaped by the corridors walked
and now stared through
            sitting in the awesome lesson of the moment’s own home,
                        a dream over 10 years,
            that this cave is positioned to open towards a passage,
                                                one’s only point of departure
            and perceptual environment is no more or less than passage,
                                                whether through the mixed celebration
of alcohol and music
in Iquitos jungle vibrancy
on the neon drug night
of America’s wandering life,
                                                             whose footsteps perambulate
                                                                         an obvious clarity:
                                                                         to heed the passage
                                                                         and await patiently
                                                                             the end
                                                                                of world war

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