We thought all isms dead with the post modernism being buried with digital strength.
But it seems a strange breeze is a blowing and realism is a showing its head, in rebirth
But who can we believe? Our abstracted world was striped with only white canvas left.
Science tried to take the stage, and we had to see the microbe be as large as you or me.
They have told us to look east to China for on the horizon a new dawn is breaking there.
Strange how we feel the urge to look at another's backyard to find art to express the spirit within.
Well I say to them, I look where the inspiration falls. Where the wind blows and like a leaf
Be tossed and dance. And if paint and brush is in hand or mud of the finest clay or just a pen-
And page.....That my friends I will make my spiritual home and express as I may
Without an ism in sight. Periods of different ages had to be categorized, conceptualized
To the point of being stripped of it true meaning, and that being the creator of any art
Poem or prose, story, song or anything that comes out from oneself, is just that yours.
So sign your name to whatever you do, claim it as your own even if you copy
That copy has your own hand print with sweat and tears and each one is different.
By the strength of the line or the softness of colour fragments rubbed with your fingers.
Smuggled lines of dark charcoal, or that song you whisper on rising from your bed.
For no isms can categorize the individual’s art of the heart. The healing of the self.
So now the individual holds all art in their inner core and brings the rainbow
Colours out to help heal our fractured spirits. Combining image and word
Like William Blake, seeing the inner beings dance to that inner tune of god stars.
