Silence never haunts the artists mind

Silence is a rareity that it is treasured in the coldest hours of the night

The artost, the man himself, holds out his hands effortlessly and they let the visions and experiences from their own eyes pour out before then for all to see.

Some times the projection is ignored.

It’s never about who sees it or who understands.

It’s about the ritual. It marks the end of a long journey of torment and artistic pleasure of suffering and joy.

This final offering lays everything to rest, the final product stands naked before all.

The naked form is never an insecurity for him. It’s not a vulnerable state but an honest one.

the base boards of an elaborate house.

Simple and open .

It’s not about approval, it’s not about acceptance, it’s about him. He cleanses his soul and let’s go of all judgement. In the Very arena in which those gestures are founded.

The final bow.

Heaving his body from the ground up into the air and just as quickly back to the ground. He was primitively clamoring on all four limbs. Like a wolf, a naked muscular shimmery essence flashed through the bank of trees.

As the thumping and melody continues he stands awkwardly and on his legs contorts his body to match the pulsating rhythm.

UP and down and in and out

Thwack track twack

His arms smack against the dangelong vines.

The wind slowly began to join the dance, ever so quietly gently.

The rain took a less subtle route and matched the bass.