Sculpture Diary March 8 2011

So why all the fuss?

To cut, to bleed, to bend and fall, to follow, to hide, to maim and shield, the scratching, yielding, thrust. To push the button of calculable horror and crease it, between two folds of white paper. White, blotting paper. Indelible ink, word for word, web for web across this screen.The language of art. This potent bomb-drop... from my lap to yours.

This is what art is capable of and so it should be...because it is life. 

But then there are the smoke sellers and spin auxiliaries - the vault keepers, those who would have us believe that currency comes from the same till as soil.  Lets call them.. 'smArt' and let them lick themselves clean and leave them alone... No, lets call 'creation' ..art.. and acknowledge 'original thought' without the Sunday supplement.....No pretence.

Whether we clean fish, forge steel or milk goats something has to emerge from the way we define our value. Even driven against the blade of theft or murder comes the flicker that cracks across our mirror. Do we look twice or once? Do we know where we fit, can we afford the pause? Can we ask the environment to cloak us, or is it  busy with other hand outs? Who is responsible? Its like separating the tail from the dog or the rope from the noose..
 Identity is the thing we 'are' and we guild  it, rape it, until the skin no longer fits. We cannot forever be silent or stand motionless, we are human. And so the cotton bales and the wheat bales and the precious crop of our seeds come tumbling out of our mouths into the blue sky and warm soil. The lambs will bleat, the politician will bellow and the birds will sing. But we have no need to apologise or weep. As our nature dictates, it is all inevitable... and there lies the irony.... the responsibility of choice.
 I believe this is the cross road at which art is now poised. It is our map of discovery and yet we have the arrogance and audacity to assume we have arrived. I believe we need to once again relive our ignorance  and sift through the quagmire our feet have become shackled in.We must empty our precious jewels and look again at the stones. To remind ourself of our origins is not looking backwards but understanding how we measure the truth of our journey.Only the weight of sincerity in each footfall will leave the deepest print. If we want our voice to carry we must sing with our purest note. And that is something worth crowing about!

  
Sculpture:  Stolen Voice by Julie Clare.   julieclaresculpture.co.uk