To an artist… IV
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Water seeps over the edge.
But none of it spills.
I need to be drenched.
Hopefully you bend, for I want it to spill.
I stumble with every draw as plain as I am.
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26-27
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I hold onto her, my saving grace.
Aware it only lasted for just a moment.
Real beauty should be able to fade away.
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ohhh stranger…
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I know,
I know it’s alright.
Let the feeling linger for now.
This dream is made of you.
You’re a dot on the horizon.
And now you’re Gone.
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Barend Cornelis Johannes Spaan – 07-08-26
To an artist… III
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How beautiful is a blossomed flower in a snowstorm? Standing strong in the midst of cold touch. Grounded by boundaries, not a choice, not a chance. Only time will decide the blossom:
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Will it see the change of seasons?
Will it get buried within the soil?
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Omnia temporaria sunt
Everything is temporary
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Barend Cornelis Johannes Spaan – 10-06-26
To an artist… II
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The habit of expectation: A human de facto.
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What if you attend and still feel misplaced in what’s arguably the midsummer of the day. Staring at a black vacuum. Referred to as the ’should have been there.’ The reflecting flakes dissolving as I stare right at it. The remedy seemed to be in grain-infested liquids: an expectation familiar.
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Eject.
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A new day formed. The body lay dormant. Aware that a linger for habit is feeding off its prey. So much aware: ‘Am I strong enough?’ You’re riding shotgun to the age-old familiarity. Hands grapple tight and circle fast. It’s not a question: an expectation of habit.
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Eject.
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Yonder sun. The demise of wastelands comes to fruition as I pondered for resolve. Crucify these passions, sentiments, and sensibilities. For these matters, my eyes cannot handle temptation. Deprive me of my habit of expectation.
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Barend Cornelis Johannes Spaan – 27-05-26
To an artist… I
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I always wondered what it took to be an artist living off their craft. Spending hours on hours to craft something with passion. To give it a throne. To be on display for thousands. It certainly is a noble thought. Sculpting away until you digest it enough where it becomes your own identity. And maybe the identity of others as they identify with yours.
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The ultimate dream.
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But to what extent do we go to pursue that dream when everything desired, that which we think that we desire, is a mere form of another object that gets pushed into the wheel of many? Certainly it isn’t the reflection in the mirror to blame. But how gullible is the opposite of that reflection when you run past the finish line over and over until you exhaust yourself?
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Oblivious to milestones.
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Last week the invisible ceiling showed itself. A lightbulb moment. Art is a mere part of a grander success that takes a realist to succeed. Through the lens of the realist, we can reverse engineer but never fully control the outcome. Not all is prefab. When you scratch deep enough, there is passion. A desire at the end of the tunnel that thrives in passion and coexists with the realist. As much as the artist finds this to be demonology.
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There is harmony.
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Barend Cornelis Johannes Spaan – 15-05-26