.

I am standing in the studio with E,
late afternoon sunlight streaming through a wall
of windows, and we are talking about art.
Art with a capital A.

E tells me how tired she is of being asked to give things away.

"What do you mean?", I ask
(knowing exactly what she is alluding to).

"Volunteer hours, artwork donatations, free instruction,
materials, tools, ideas, all of it, all in the name of,
the game of, fundraising.".

"...to support the Arts.", I nod.
"That nebulous entity".

"...in what other profession!", we chorus.

Most people do not consider the pursuit of art
to be a profession, not one that requires skill
and training, but instead think of it as an affliction.
It's an old issue and we are both sufficiently bored
with discussing it, at least enough to avoid any
conspiratorial cynicism or overt protest. Rather than
rehashing these old themes, E sums it up
with exhalation,

"Artists supporting the arts. And everyone hires their friends."

I nod, reciting the list,

"Curators, administrators, publishers, critics,
art historians, grant adjudicators, all contributing
to an incestuous plethora of nepotism, favouritism,
regionalism. The all-pervading cult of experts."

Both of us are too weary to roll our eyes with
melodramatic incredulity. The cliche of it.
Popular culture is just what it means to be.
Popular. Populaced. Safe. We both know that
the only people who ever attend gallery openings
are artists, art curators and all of their friends.
A closed circle and rather exclusive. Even if art
has historically been intended for the art-initiated,
Art-with-a-capital-A feeds on itself.

We joke abit, conjuring revolutions and public
protests that span vast implications and entire
tax brackets. Envisioning whole geographic regions
collectively joined in one unifying task of artful
expression that rids the world of Art for a day.
We repeat the word glocal outloud, again and again,
until it becomes two distinct nonsensical sounds
that makes us laugh. Glo. Cal. E and I agree
that highly abstract notions (like art and god)
are best understood by examining what they are not.
What if an international movement of artists-without-borders
temporarily erased all traces of aesthetic expression
from the planet? Would its fleeting disappearance
strike some universal chord of outrage? We think not,
even though its presence pervades everything. But
mainly, we are just having fun with words at the end
of a busy day. Standing in the midst of a messy studio,
enjoying conviviality bathed in golden sunlight.
Tangling ourselves up in wondrous what-ifs.

A fleeting 4 pm sun casts shadows across the arborite table
tops and we watch how it illuminates the layers of clay dust
into so many little specks of ambered light on dark. The
shifting shadows of this visual texture. Its rhythms.

Imagine framing the table just as it is, we say. Hanging it
up in a so-called art space. Calling it art as if to
challenge the sameness of what one typically finds in high
(and low) Art Gallery spaces. In the end, we both agree
that art is a private process. A personal expression and
an ideosyncratic habit of mind. One that can't be preached
to the uninitiated. Those who are interested will find it.
Otherwise, art is just a word, an investment commodity and
one of the many languages at play in making sense of
the world. Still, the question remains; how does one
lift it beyond its insular sphere? Beyond exclusivity?

I think of Dante's exile. What he learned from it and how
he transformed his experience into The Divine Comedy begun
in 1308. World's greatest living poem. How it still resonates
with contemporary poignance. Needs no blatant invitation
(nor apology in the guise of 'fundraising') to be appreciated.
It is what it is. An expression of his life. An archival trace
of his unique timeandplace. Those who are intrinsically
interested will inevitably find their way to it.

After writing all of this, I hesitate. Finger hovering above
the computer mouse for one long moment. Instead of releasing
these thoughts into this textual space, I click "draft" and
let it sit unread for at least five days.
Then another 2 weeks.

But there is something different about the sun today.
Its rare appearance in the sky, a slow promise of spring
in my northern climate. A craved-for kind of warmth that
anyone living in tropical climates will never understand.
How one longs for the sun, craves its overdue spill across
skin. Its saturation but also its visual reprieve, once again
returning colour to the horizon after months of unending grey.

There is something unexplainable in the endlessness of today's
blue that makes me want to be swallowed by it. Its stark contrast
to any previous lack that prompts me to finally clickandsend these
words, words that I would otherwise typically delete, allthewhile
thinking 'who really reads this stuff, anyway?'. Afterall, what's
one more voice tossed into a virtual sea of etherial dataspeak.
Like friends lost in time with no goodbyes, I mourn their loss
but let them go.

Writing them into the void, not for any particular audience,
but simply for the joy of it, here they sit. These words.
It has been far too long since I have risked crossing any
borders (either geographical, cultural, moral or psychological).
But today is a good day for transgressions. The truth is,
I send these thoughts to no place in particular and to no
one in particular, even as I seek a borderless space that
celebrates difference. And in this, I remain predictably
dedicated to my own impossibilities. Blue sky and all.