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The Essence of Art

Journal Entry: Tue Mar 24, 2015, 10:11 PM
Contents:
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Articles
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Thanks to all you wonderful artists who contribute and share your work here...



and special thanks to our Co-Founder libramoon :iconlibramoon: for maintaining the site almost single-handedly week after week!



Members: Notice that our site now has folders divided by the year each work was submitted. All new works should be submitted to Featured which corresponds to 2015.



and now to the main thought.... :)





The Essence of Art



Art is about participating in the Divine Kingdom. The most fulfilling creation of art is when we directly experience the transformation of bringing some aspect of the Kingdom into this world through our work. It is a fulfilling, illuminating, and freeing experience that integrates our human life with divine reality.

Through orienting our lives to noble principles like service and self cultivation, we develop the capacity to perceive reality objectively. Through this cleansed vision, we overcome the mechanisms of deception that are so deeply embedded in the world humanity has created. We purify our eyes and our perception and develop the ability to perceive the objective value of creations, and particularly of art.

Through this purified vision, we can look at ourselves, at our art work, and the art work of others with a clean and sober eye. We can see that no matter how skilled an artist is in the techniques of any given school, the traces of their true spirit and vital energy are embedded in all the works they create. Thus technique, as it has in so many places and times been used to obscure truth, no longer has the hold on our bearing to control our experience of what has now become a direct and obvious remnant of the artists’ objective state.

Living according to noble principles is a sobering and illuminating path to walk, for it destroys the fantasies of our cultures and our personal consciousness. Art becomes not a competitive agenda of egos, but rather a revelation of souls and the states in which they embed themselves. The prolific values in the so-called "art world" - which in our global Western culture place such high emphasis on obscuring power structures and truths - are effortlessly discarded, in favor of sincerity of expression and commitment to honest self cultivation.

The commonly implemented rules of art - e.g. perspective, balance, figuration, etc - are no longer experienced as transcendent limitations of internal expression. Rather, certain rules emerge from within the artist naturally, according to what serves the sincerity of his or her artistic expression. We can discover and refine techniques such as perspective through holding true to our personal vision just as powerfully as by training with any book or curriculum. It’s not that the study of technical principles will never arise during artistic growth, but rather their study ebbs and flows as the artist answers to the essential rhythms of his or her creative vitality.

Many art students are trained through curricula that enforce the need for artificiality of practice as a prerequisite for successful personal expression. This operates by a false and life-denying principle, which asserts that our vital flow must be suppressed at times in favor of artificial practices. This is fundamentally false, as the true development of creative expression comes not from its suppression in favor of technical practices, but rather from allowing it to flow within supportive environments sustained by the presence of a teacher. The art teacher’s role, therefore, is primarily to direct the vital flow of students’ natural creativity within a safe and supportive environment, rather than to suppress it and supplant it with mechanical practice.

In this light, we can look to the art curricula of many schools and see that it is not defined by real teachers, but rather by people who have most successfully internalized technical abilities. This also explains why so many MFA students express the attitude of becoming successful artists in spite of their education, rather than because of it. The true measure of the artist, and of the art teacher, is the commitment to living according to noble principles.

Our path as artists is for us to choose. We can walk an easier path through which we find acclaim, money, and praise by serving egos and established power structures. Yet ultimately we cannot hide from ourselves nor can we hide in our art from the cleansed vision of a true visionary. For walking a path of noble principles like self development, service, and love, we develop true power according to the operations of the objective universe and the Divine Kingdom. And further, I believe that the time is at hand when even the earthly rewards of acclaim, money, and praise will be flowing more and more in the direction of those who are sincerely choosing to follow the destiny written in their hearts. Those seeking easy rewards will be crushed by those who are claiming their true place in the Divine Kingdom.



Thank you for reading, and Godspeed on your creative endeavors....

---Gregory Bart aka Kiminjo:iconkiminjo:

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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2016
Maybe you would enjoy a little (full moon) night-time entertainment?
 
 
or
 
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Aug 17, 2016
Remember when we
 
 
Remember
when we
were refugees,
martyrs in transition.
Road hypnosis.
Steps incessantly stranger.
Walking unhinged, barbaric terrain.
 
Home, family, streets to meet and trade,
perks of urbanity
cultured humanity
strong lanes of history,
tightly wrapped common milieu
as small daily rituals.
Now obliterated, markers
of place, of purpose.  Constrained movement
of uncertain destination,
I walk enclosed in walkers’ formation,
consciousness optional,
entrained within we of unsettled duration.
 
Brief touch, short awareness of a face,
faces, eyes almost blind, shrouded by terror,
destitution.
Why be human, cling to burdens of the flesh,
of aspiring?
Herd cattle, we pretend have no pain,
no mindful fear, no sense of personal
reality.
We walk because we have no landing.
Long past exhaustion, grabbing at pity of
strangers to attend our exhibition, to watch
over, protect, accept, that we fall on their streets
desperate for sleep.
Tattered skin, fragile bones;
reviled by foreign merchants
expecting quid pro quo
wherever we’re pressed to go.
Who are we, bleeding identity, to plead
salvation?
When we must stop, drop to the ground,
do they walk over us, or around, or humanely
offer shelter, bedding? 
 
Redefine home as space to sleep, keep
what we own (until stolen).
Ever diminished, with no where
to root and grow,
without resource of comfort, nothing
worth waking, yet another dire day descends.
 
Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
 
Once accustomed security of work and love
(pre-war normality).
Today’s reality denies those lives.
Turned from tribal identity to nonentity,
just another body, broken in the fray.
 
Yet over yonder years, alliances twist,
resist, recombine; we adapt, regroup.
Each here/now imbues with further
circumstance, eternal dance of fates
suspected or surprise.  If we could
visualize as from above, masked for day’s
occasion, but behind gathering whole
panorama truths
as moments of clarity, 
whom are we assuming our self story to
include?
 
Summons, ambient clarion 
to public  acclaim:
Lives matter, private pain
sad desperation that never
fully heals though it ebb, sway, regain
purchase.
Surge of defiance over uncertain destiny,
advance of industry, if we might find that energy.
Realign expectant gaze toward peace, plenty
-- planetary necessity.
Eventually to remember as poignant history,
ritual song to somber tidal drum,
when we were refugees.
 
 
 
 
 
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2016
 *
Easter
 *
Gentle rosy raindrops of a mellow dawning.
Children make the day – it’s Spring.
I thought of Christ in Church this morning,
borne on His cross in long ago Jerusalem.
Jesus, before His Destiny
removed Him from common ribaldry,
shoving banter that scores for a man
his jesting place among fellow men,
Jesus loved the little children even then.
He dared to proclaim a gentle faith, free
from bullies’ shaming, from easy blaming,
from traumatic scars of social war.
He believed in kind justice, respect for
human kin above judgmental sin.
Fatherly humor, the way fathers love
their children, with the pride of
ownership and the slave master’s
secret fear,
God disciplines His Heir.
 **
Arising to new warmth, the earth’s reawakening.
It’s a time for children and games of childhood,
a time for flirting with romance,
secret smiles and daisy chains.
Restorative season, simple, soft, natural,
for anointing damaged souls in peace
after lacerative ravages of winter.
Time for gentle things
like newborn kittens
and flowerbuds after beckon of rain.
I am slowly relearning the healing strength of love,
gladly relearning easy pleasures of humanity.
Life is tender, poignant,
a drifting melody.
 *
 *
 *
SHELL GAME
 Eggs drop – shards and viscous yuck.
A mess, better left unbroken;
walk softly, whisper, agree
to be agreeable.
Breakfasting on soggy cereal or
just a cuppa.
Smiling lamely through the
livelong day.
“Please don’t let me be a burden.
Please, allow me, walk upon my
crooked spinal stairway while
I carry your petty parcels
in my cracked, bleeding teeth.”
Eggshells break monthly
inside my womb.
But we don’t speak of that.
Not polite.  Not politic.
Like religion and horse races,
consuming addictions.
‘Cause we’re alright, ya know.
We’ve nothing to complain of.
Got our daily cakes and tea,
obeisance to some faith based Queen,
jolly good, jelly roll.
On Easter, in the blessing of Spring,
we paint sweet pastels
gently upon hard-boiled shells,
promise to be good little lambs.
The crust of the Earth
protects primeval fire and
gemstones.
Seed of the Sun
bears a glorious array of
multi-hued fruits
upon which we feast
for energy.
Part of this complete breakfast
rounded with an omelet
for growth and repair.
 *
 *
 *
 
SUNDAY PSALM 
Am I meant to be
a sacrificial lamb
as the Universe goes about its merry way?
Is this why we pray?
 *
If it’s only me —
the great and wise I AM
engaging in some self-negating play,
what the hey?
Life is whatever you make it.
So go out there and take it.
Never, ever fake it
and you’ll be ok.
Or so they say…
 *
Just a philosopher-poet,
suffered to ply my trade.
Brilliant skies hover nigh;
but, below, fading sight denies
acclaim.
 *
Somnolent glide, sinuous, silvery stair.
Burnt eyes still, closed to the world.
What glimpse might I witness
if only I dare?
Is there purpose to wandering Earth?
Should I care?
But what if I’m missing the thrill?
What would carry me there?
 *
Over the boundaries; into the wild.
Not a safe task to commit to a child.
A quest full of questions.
A fool’s ‘oliday.
And, have I mentioned,
no promise of pay.
Just a born again supplicant
reshaping the code,
creating the tale I’ll tell
when I’m old.
 *
“Jesus wept and died”
I always wondered what that meant.
An admonition to us to do the same?
Like, “Life sucks, and then you end”?
Or, if Jesus died for our sins,
did he first weep for our souls —
a holy pity party enfolding us all?
So, our sins have been wept for, died for;
we carry the blood of the Lamb, like disease.
Perhaps His sacrifice would be better released as
happy laughter; hugged forgiving;
genuine indulgence in feast of experience,
balance to weeping and dying.
For revelry balances grief;
ecstasy balances defeat;
and love, of course,
is the only balance to love.
Spitting on divine art.
Anger overtaking heart.
Ripping the world wheel apart,
invested in childish rage.
“Am I good now, Daddy?”
Purging my animal nature.
Ripping out the devils
under every bed.
I tell them, I tell them
what you said
about Fires of Hell awaiting
devotion to unsanctified ways.
Daddy, will you love me,
keep me safe?
My life, all lives, for You!
I humbly sacrifice
all life to You.
‘Cause you’re my Man, my Holy
Truth and Power.
Elevate my cause; it is your own.
 *
 *
 *
 
ARIA FROM THE CHRIST
Beat forward along ragged trail of blood.
Pure choral brought into view only
to satisfy chew of
subjugation by imperial decree.
Children, our fortune’s future
eaten raw after no sin but birth.
Moving too quickly,
caught up in gears and
blank-eyed bureaucracy.
Heroes cast for face and form,
character mere flimsy apparition.
Action speaks, lockstep with
homogenized product placement,
perfect hormonal peaks,
demographic destiny.
There are promised lands, great vistas,
heaven in every regard.
Clear road signs, well designed directions
abound.  Nothing uplifting need be denied.
A box of chocolate eggs.  A briar crown.
Symbols bring meaning
as audience finds faith to   
take off through soaring soundscape,
sail high on melodic wings.
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2015
*
The stars
The dark
The trees
The wind
On the street where I live.
On this night while I write.
Happening here and now.
Luxuriant melody.
Who can hear with me?
Share this moment in all of eternity?
Breathe in time to deeply vibrating tune.
What is Truth?
What is true?
Feet above ground.
Ambient air permeates –
celestial entities,
transient identities,
ambiguous destinies,
exquisite sentience.
Here and now.
*
Estrellita holiday arrayed, dazzling gauze, adoring gaze, impeccable focus.
Delicate paper sculpture forest of splendor, tin foil twinkle Moonglow spell.
Gifts for me misters and mistresses, ladies and gents, those who pass through and take a glitter-stamped chance.
Open adventure, taste inhaled atoms from unfathomed distance.
In this small crystal, starlight smiles.
Solar rays slowly kiss strength and warmth.
Beauty answers, in her aspect of eternity.
*
Beaches at sunset, quiet waves, sparkling reflection;
sand like dulcet bedding, gently shaded serene meditation.
*
Mountain ponds grounded by pastel flowers;
bright feathered geese flitter on high in scant array;
fairy light just enough to wander beyond glare or haze.
*
Clear long straight road into fantasy landscape, then curving
through hills, farms, forests, lit by wide blue breeze,
water-painted sky, scent of perfumed trees.
*
Winter magic freshly frosted, swirled, made new and brilliant.
Smell delicious promise, evoking caress of awe.
Call to seekers, distant melody sweet, calm, effulgent.
Birds in homeward flight, toward early sunset.
Full of good harvest, ready to roost through darkness.
Is this blessed omen of peaceful plenty to rejoice?
Or mere preparation for harsh Winter tempests to come?
Huddling against terrible storms, well placed, safe, together.
Strangers nested, perfumed, rarified.
Waiting for Lightbringer, morning star.
We celebrate through rugged weather warm welcoming peace.
*
Petite performance, illumined revelry – light we carry, share, renew.
If we might Believe, just enough to stare hard into flowing crystal.
See, fragile and fleeting, glass slowly melting, gently emitting.
Still peace, mindful passion, portentous glow, every facet effervescent.
Improvisation respects panoramic view.
Tell me a story of shining strength and brilliant strategies.
Thrilling escapes. Clever soliloquies.
Blessing of forgetting real dangers and their fears.
Heroes – people so publicly good they inspire us to be better.
To wander clothed for travel, no map, destination.
Direction, decision, matters of whim or instant’s serendipity.
*
Soft blue cloud mist, interrupting constellations.
Look! A gathering of space astronauts happy to save us because we’re all brethren as living universe.
Wiser big siblings, protective, sharing what longer experience has taught.
Sparkly lights over our Wintering fields, meteorites to wish upon.
I wish for miracles that outdo, overwhelm biblical prophecy.
Let them fight, outside our Earth borders, those archetypes of Lucifer and Christ.
Let them whip up fierce, boisterous conflagration – epiphanies of rage against love.
Hell, take bets, cheer and get high on the action. Up there, in that realm made of digitized dreams.
Here, right here and now and always from here on, let it go.
Let the movie skip, dynamic pixelate, on that distant screen while we
enjoy festivities, sparkling lights and generosity, best humanity can offer
-- spirit of liberation immersed in joyous celebration.
*
Iridescent, day-glo globes, fairy dust in billow flight.
*
The angel loved this child.
It’s not that all angels love their charges.
Mostly it’s just a job, though a job, of course, they perform joyfully.
It is not usually so personal, so human.
The angel watched over the child with poignant care.
It was not in angelic power to keep the child untouched by the myriad harms,
disappointments, longing pain, hapless tragedies of mortal consequence.
Yes, the angel was assigned as Guardian, but only insofar as to protect this life, keep intact the necessary attributes to fulfill this promised role in the great production, attributes brought to fruition through exercise in lesser roles over maturation, incremental expression of range.
So the angel watched this child grow, awkwardly, teased and tortured into position within a cultural tradition designed to control, keep order for elite convenience.
The devoted angel whispered kind encouragement, kept vigil lest this unique imagination be paralyzed, destroyed.
The angel loved so intensely as to be able to manifest in dreams, mind wanderings, delicate places inviolate by what our world expects and enforces.
Even when it seemed all seethed with horror, relentless sorrow, madness beyond comprehension, stench of mundane rot, the angel’s adoring presence gave a supportive touchstone of calm.
Always, look without the deceptive bias of eyes, listen without prejudice of language, feel soothed, understood.
The angel holds ethereal essence gently, passionately, in boundless generosity.
They are bonded twins, each more profoundly blessed in affinity.
*
What is the word for beyond words --
beauty simple, profound.
Stars, sunrays, miracles ablaze.
Loved and protected by gods, smitten with ecstasy.
Fortune favors elegance, grace of presence,
true nobility beyond codes of legend.
*
Long-toothed grey-white horse munches, trots,
watches occasional cars go by the road along this corral.
Drowsing afternoons remembers flying, wide white wings.
She has horse sense, wild strong senses, instinctual balance.
She eyes those passing passengers without comment.
If she needed, she could fly out of range, disappear from men’s
landscape. Not resigned, nor precisely happy – comfortable,
content, completely free.
 
*  
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Dec 6, 2015
Peaceful imagery
 
Beaches at sunset, quiet waves, sparkling reflection;
sand like dulcet bedding, gently shaded for dreaming.
 
Mountain ponds surrounded by pastel flowers;
birds of grace flitter above in scant aerial array; fairy light just
bright enough to wander without glare or haze.
 
Clear long straight road into fantasy landscape, then curving
through hills, farms, forests, lit by wide blue breeze,
water-painted sky, scent of perfumed trees.
 
Winter magic freshly frosted, swirled, made new
and brilliant, distant melody sweet, calm, effulgent.
Smell delicious promise, somnolent, seeking, evoking
a caress of serene awe.  
 
 
12/6/15
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Nov 25, 2015
Celebrate, honor gods of good fortune
Eat, drink, share beautiful stories
Very merry blessed Be
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Nov 16, 2015
Worthy Purpose
 
 
Cultivate your small plot.
Make it as beautiful as you can
every day.
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2015
August 15 ‘A Spontaneous Day of Peace’  - Social Media & The Blogosphere
 
Risen
 
 
Sky born, lifted above
Water, Earth, primordial mud.
Bare breath and lilting light waft up, carry ephemeral
tongues, frenzied yet exquisite. Exaltation, daring
to swoop, touch, climb, pirouette.
Path briefly complete in hover, amazed, over
flowering waves.
 
Vision trails, engulfed in smoke of smelting flame,
gasping, tropically turning, blind, yet
beyond mistrust.  A world drifts.  Black night backlit in
pinpricks.  Atmosphere of bioluminescence,
symphonic, symbiotic.  Listen as rippling elements
grow words, symbolic histories, into a Summer game.
Out here, sparkling rain weaves rainbows.  Reverence
casts reflection as shimmer and shadow play.
Up here, beyond boundaries of ordinary days,
the only Commandment to penetrate --
Be Peace
 
 
 
 
Lighting Candles
 
 
I wish you peace.
I wish you love.
I wish you time to
explore your essence.
I wish you safety.
I wish you patience.
I wish you visions,
sweet dreams and
sweeter days.
I wish the world
a sweeter disposition.
I wish for peace,
for love,
for better times.
I wish we all get
the wishes we yearn for.
I thrice charge these wishes
and send them to you.
 
 
 
 
Body Language
 
 
Teach Peace
Dancing in the classroom
Body wisdom
reaches through neural pathways,
regenerates whole to whole,
soul to soul
touching seam
exactly
I feel you in my mind, my spine.
Feel me dancing,
elongating muscles,
extending connections.
 
 
 
 
 
Logic of Evolution
 
 
Successful progenitors
survive to sow seed
by force or persuasion
or hiding off screen
or banding together
that more may succeed,
and upgrade conditions,
enhance the breed.
But, for such teams to work well
we must
learn to respect, honor, and trust;
expect to contribute, receive and share,
accept the caring for and care.
In community varied seeds are sown.
Thus is a thriving future grown.
Or, sibling rankling infests, turns
on neighbors as scorn.
Barriers proliferate,
preparations for war.
Who is emboldened by
destruction and blood,
blasting civilizations
back into mud?
Are these principled people
filled with kindness and joy?
Those who can create, build;
the lacking destroy.
Guns, bombs, cruel words,
contempt, angry sneers,
promotion of pain,
preying on fears,
paying us naught but
unneeded tears
and advancement of certain
unsavory careers.
We can reject violent lies,
realize the prize.
Here! before our eyes.
Simple. Easy. Free.
Expect, accept, embrace
the abundance
of Peace.
 
 
 
Earth Songs
 
 
Aching times.
Ghost singers on the prairie.
Snug little home, hearthfire familial peace
against rage and winds. Stone and sacrifice.
Dust storms erode,
leave wastrel sentinels.
 
Far, in green glade mists
where ancient hymns are born,
chthonic wilds, primordial rune castings.
Building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders.
Intrinsic senses, despair, bottomless sorrow, loss of intent.
At the root of desire, truest wish to be fashioned,
sold at price of who you were made against your nature.
 
Wooden ships sail eternal sea.
Journey ages within these circles, free.
Easy found trades, winds selling seeds.
Back to the gardens of pagan lore --
earth, air, sun, and transforming water.
We wander days of potent destiny,
telling the tale, deep mystical incantation,
of a possible age in birth.
Love song 'tween man
and Earth.
 
we are not our ancestors
we are not religions
we are not lines on a map demarcated by war
we are earth made vital
we are seeking minds inviting partners
we are seed and core as skin sheds and grows anew
we are me and you and all we become, alone and together
we are as we agree, composed of dissonance and harmony
thriving lives matter
Peace matters
 
 
 
 
Clean Up
 
 
I dislike the implied mess of violence.
Peace is more tidy,
clean and inviting.
Why waste precious metal
in deadly intent
when a kickass party
can pay the rent --
a rant and rave relaxing
pent up pain.
Where’s the percentage of gain?
The perception that rage requires
release within this people cage,
to ease torment of feeling less
accepted,
Reflex flight or fight? Psychobabble hype?
Nobody  needs to violently die today.
 
 
 
 
 
Luminescent Choir
 
 
Singers in the fog.
Outlying voices thin, yet growing;
accruing sound, like liquid, flowing.
Emoting tales of woe, resistance.
Shouted sighs of denied existence.
Insightful chants insist persistence.
We never died.  We're knitting strong.
Born into a world-wide village.
Only from ourselves to pillage.
Hear our song.
Some bright good morning of
fish and loaves, cake and wine,
capacious tribes adjoin in movement.
Shining line of peace.
Terror’s fear released.
Music, celebration in the streets.
Flower scented candles,
vigil against shame.
Blazing through miasmic mist,
Apollonian flame torches banners of
hostilities falsely triggered
in our name.
Come harmonize, aloud:
We're alive and proud
to descant, dispel dank chill.
Sing to vanquish fog.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
This is our greatest duty
 
 
Live in peace,
believe in joy --
For as joy fills our hearts, we leave no room for
  doom/destruction
As joy fills our lives, we learn to live
in
Outreaching love
Deep healing warmth
Safe harbor home
Benevolence assured
Fulfilling Hope
Affirming Joy
Abiding Peace
 
 
Make Peace The Issue
 
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Aug 7, 2015

A Spontaneous Day of Peace




Official ‘A Spontaneous Day of Peace’ available soon. Any questions, please leave them in the comments section or send email to theneighborhood@thepublicblogger.com

On August 15, Social Media and the Blogosphere: Peace everywhere.

Share The Neighborhood with Your Community
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2015
"As artists—indeed, as humans—we are free to make our own meaning."

krispattonart.com/portfolio/hi…
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