We are all time travelers.
I have come to this conclusion in a roundabout route, my usual method of making way from A to B, via a few scenic-tour handfuls of multi-cultural alphabets wrought from pen, paper press, and cuneiform tablet.
Art is the key. It is in art where most of us spend our free time, from soaking up opera to hand-tying flies for fishing, or whatever our fancy. We are consumers of all things, now that we make almost nothing in this country, and art -- popular culture, if you'd prefer to call it -- is part of our voracious appetite.
(Even today's old-fashioned broadcast radio and television counts -- although, I am often unsure what it counts as -- buh-dum-dah.)
Art is where we go for relief from the routine world in which we find ourselves. And, if we have any energy left over from just trying to survive, and have any interests to do so, we choose art as a platform on which we hope to stand, better understanding our world, ourselves, and trying to make some sense of this journey and this place -- maybe even other people, although we shouldn't get our hopes up too high.
Some of us feel a need to enter into this conversation of what it all means, adding broad strokes of interpretation and meaning to our canvasses, whether we use oils or finger paints, music notation or instrumentation, photographs or moving images, sculptures or shadow boxes, line drawings or computer renderings, pens or keyboards.
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