CB

This is Charles Bukowski

The image on the right is the original artwork. The one on the left is my sketch. What surprised me during the sketch was that it was easier to get over that feeling of having a critic looking at everything I did. I could just draw after a little practice and in the sketch is reflected my confidence. There's a man in that picture. It might not be the same C. Bukowski that is imaged on the right, but there is a man there. He's got personality and character. He's alive. That's all I wanted. 

My only goal with this- and really my only goal with anything I do is to get over that critic. The only thing I want to do is pour myself into the action of doing it. My goal is to get to the point where I can give up my attachment to the result of my actions. I want to give freely to the world. This takes practice. You've got to build your skill with anything. I've practiced writing long enough that I can construct a story, but the critic get's involved too often and makes everything too heady.

And there it is! That fucking Charles B! I'm not talking about the drawing, but the feeling of bringing the man to paper. That's the reward. The thing that holds me back more than anything right now is the idea that if I try to draw right now, I'll make something that looks like shit. I'll "Fail"- whatever that means. Hah. Afraid to practice because it won't be perfect on the first go. Sometimes I feel like handing over controls to that man on the page. Let him speak for a while without even trying to censor what comes out. 

God gives man the gift of free will- or does he merely allow it?

I feel like I'm allowing myself to be that kind of wildness. That strange twisted monster that makes beautiful works out of nature and clay. I feel like the man I drew on the page is a part of myself that's finding expression. I want to relinquish control to that feeling- that wildness. Ok, let's try something. I'm going to let go temporarily here and see what kind of things bust out. This should be fun.

Whoa, that is way too much freedom. Make some promises first so I know I can trust myself- that I'll follow thru. 

Well that was fun. I couldn't really record that in the written word, but I got an image of myself at a younger age. Before I cared what people thought- when I could roll around in the grass and not care- or walk up to a group of people and strike up conversation. I'm getting back to that place but it takes time. Art helps. 

Let it Speak

"Let the wind speak / That is paradise" -Ezra Pound

I imagine the wind pushing the grain
To forge the font.
Causing fields to bend and fold.
The feeling of a brush head
Against my face while it
Paints a mountain-
Those small dimples
And imperfections
Of paper.
Ink rolling over rocks.
And clouds made from
Stray and jittering bristles.
A collaborative of
Brushes guided
By a single steady hand.
And us,
Painted men,
Becoming Painters.
Ourselves, overcome
With impulse, driven
By as many
Little gusts
As grains
On the beach.
And in this way,
The world finds color.
A drop in the bucket
Of prismatic
Imperminance.
Drifting like the light bent
Through water, and dancing
On the floor.
As much distorted
From the fish
As the nature of
The thing. Colors.
What wonder.