First Writes is what I call my first words on the page in the morning. It’s the piled up stuff in my brain spilled out. Sometimes it is several lines. Other times it’s several pages. I allow it to flow organically, whether it’s recall from last night’s dream or scenes from my daydreams. I get it down. The words fall fresh from my head unencumbered by deadlines or set goals. Nothing is contrived. There are no attempts at clever combinations of jarring adjectives or spellbinding metaphors. If a spell is cast, it comes from the purest and most unintentional of intentions.
I write like a madman directing a symphony. Often the penmanship is less than admirable. Not that mine ever is. That’s perfectly okay because I’m not writing for instruction or academic precision. There will be no edits or critique. This is truly dreamwork and I can do no wrong on the page. Do it without rhyme or reason, save getting it down. First writing is for me, all mine. It’s my thought to written word dump. This writing can even add clarity to obscure dreams, bringing clarity in its wake in my waking world.
I would encourage anyone one who has aspirations of any sort, or not, to journal. Write down your first thoughts in the morning. It’s a type of meditation – a relief that feels to the mind like a good long pee after you’ve held it for an entire coast to coast plane ride after a couple of crabapple juices. Do the write thing . Do it for you. Anything you do for you is an investment in what you have to offer the world. No pressure. No pressure. Absolutely, no pressure.
Just as a parent can never fully predict the impact their child will make on the world, an artist can never fully know how or if any of the works they produce will affect an audience, intended or not. We do our best with what we have and release. We have no choice but to trust the process. In that make we make room for the work to do it’s work.
Last week I received a call in the late morning hour. It was the mural sponsor. I could hear a weight in his voice, dragging on each sentence. He finally asked if K had called me. I said “no, why?”
“So You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” I responded, followed by a halt of silence.
“Man, someone attacked the mural. It’s bad, real bad.” He choked on the words, I could hear the torn spirit coming though his voice. He went on to offer his condolences, literally, before informing me that he was filing a police report. It sounded to much like a death announcement. When we eventually hung up, I tried to sit with the reality for a minute. It would not settle. Would not sit. There was no feeling of finality, no dropping of my head, no feeling of loss. Was I numb or just in need of more time to process.
I called my partner and shared the news with her. It hit her much harder than it had me. What’s wrong with me, I questioned. Why am I not feeling this. I could feel the fire in her voice as she rattled off a list of needed responses. File a police report, check the camera’s in the area, call the news. Call the news. “Call the news? I repeated in question in a question.
“Call the news?” Immediately the words of Mamie Till Mobley, mother of Emmett Till, came to mind. Not that I’m weighing her son’s life with my artwork but her words fit. She asked for an open casket at the funeral, “Let the people see what they did to my boy.” I instructed the sponsor to call the news. In a few quick minutes I received a call back for an interview. I really didn’t want to do it. Really didn’t even want to see the condition of the art work. The last time I’d seen her she stood tall and proud, almost eerily animated in her turn to gaze at viewers. Now she’s been the victim of an attacked. But was she a victim, though? My mind twirled on the thought. Or was she doing the work, taking the path that had been the plan all along? In the creative realm, the work of the work is usually bigger than we fashion. That question allowed me to be saddened but not sad. Saddened that we have not moved beyond the petty differences that linger, like dirty underwear on a rusted barbed wire fence in those spaces between us. Saddened that a thing of beauty, a gift, would be vandalized in a society thirsty for such offerings.
It hit the news with a thud. I posted on social media and there was a mighty rushing, an outpouring of concern and care. I received a phone calls from as far aways as Dallas, TX. The depth of the conversations sparked in my presence informed me that the work was doing its work. It had tapped into the wellspring of humanity.
When I arrived at the scene, I didn’t look at the piece right away. The news lady asked me stand in front of it, if I didn’t mind. When I walked over, I turned to look at the piece. Her eyes, clear and strong met mine in a way that went beyond an art piece. Her gaze was still piecing, even mores now. They had not taken that away. The key, the symbol of access was still intact. I always say that art is a universal language, soul speak. That work spoke right back into my soul, shook me in that moment, reminding me anew that I am born to do this. The work – the art, is a stop, look, and listen sign pointing toward the greater good. As creatives we are the honored, chosen channels through which the work comes. But we must realize that we become the recipients like Mother Mary before her son, Jesus, of the the message, power, and promise of the work’s work.
A few weeks ago, I completed a mural installation entitled In Deed on a busy corner in a newer development near downtown. I worked outdoors for about a week, prepping the wall by sanding down uneven concrete, and finally the primer before the actual local color went on. As I worked on this very public piece, I became aware of how spaces exist in relative obscurity or worse, utter neglect that turns unsightly and stands as a testament to lack of care, or too busy to dare. It dawned on me anew how we, as creatives spot these spaces, catch a vision, engage, and ultimately command them to speak as we will.
As I worked, I was showered by words of encouragement and gratitude by those passing through. Some even stopped their cars or came by to chat awhile. A photographer came and took a plethora of photos, fully immersing herself in the space. Public art is engagement on multiple levels. I often refer to it as performance art. Just past the middle portion of the project, a little elder lady came over. She lived in the new apartments across the four lane street with the manicured grass median. On her walker she arrived with words of praise and the unsurprising news that she’d been watching the entire process from her unit window. “I just sit and watch.” she said. It’s been magical, just seeing it develop and you so patiently dealing with the people who stop to talk to you.” I informed her that conversations were part of the process on a public art initiative. I really don’t mind. My curiosity had been satiated. I’d wondered if I had an audience in the plethora of windows that were stacked around my performance. I feel like a magician or a conductor on most projects like this, my brush as the baton commanding the colors in concert with the composition within the space.
When the piece was complete, I packed to leave. After taking a few photos on my phone, I did not go back down to the space but rather allowed the feedback of the public to be an extension of my eyes. I received it in retrospect as I was on to the next project, leaving this one to live and do its bidding in the space I’d commanded. My work was done. It was the work’s work to do now. I’d conceived, planned, and executed, in word by my agreement to do the project. Then I birthed it into existence by command, then commanding by work/action. In deed I had brought it to pass. Indeed, I had.
…but never an impossible task. The only true impossibilities are the challenges never taken, the parts of us never claimed or discovered. The word rubicon means, in essence, to make an irrevocable decision, a point of no return. In the space of which I speak, we must make a decision to be in that space of being one with our decision. Claim our whole selves; our good stories and our not so good. They are a part of us and what brought us to where we are. That’s called commitment. The back and forth between committed and not, hiding who we are and losing control, will destroy us both physically and mentally, and bankrupt us spiritually.
“Once you make a decision the universe conspires to make it happen.”
+ Ralph Waldo Emerson
There is a concentration of power generated in making a decision. It brings all the parts of us together and unites our faculties to meet the challenges at hand. It’s hard to get directions when you don’t know where you agree going. It’s hard to be on a clear path when you are divided. Search within. Get to know you and your desires/goals, then set your GPS and go. No matter how rugged the terrain, you are well equipped to make the journey. The map is inside. Whatever it is, it came to you to come through you. Your success is contingent on using all of you, the good, the bad, and the so-called ugly. Claim it all and use it. It is all you! It’s for you not against you. Rise to the challenge and be what only you can be, in order to do what you do, the way only you can do it. I’ll see you when the smoke clears…Trust the process.
Yes, I know the title sounds a bit out there on the tip but I really couldn’t think of anything else that would describe where I’m going. It’s the best I have for what I’m about to give.
There is a dialogue in the 2012 Marvel film, The Avengers when the team is in the heat of battle and things are growing exponentially hotter. Bruce Banner begins walking in his human form towards a giant alien creature trailing in the sky toward them, hot on the heals of Iron Man. Captain American calls out to him. “Doctor Banner, now might be a good time for you to get angry.” Banner turns and responds in eerie calm, “That’s my secret, Captain, I’m always angry.” With that he turns back around and simultaneously transforms into the Hulk, humongous green forearm smashing full into the oncoming enemy.
That line and scene always intrigued me. “I’m always angry.” This was a revelation that Bruce Banner had evolved to a state of not being at war with the Hulk. He had ceased trying to tame the beast and had indelibly claimed the beast. Taking him into himself as a part of himself indistinguishable from any of life’s challenges, within or without. The Hulk had something he could use, something he needed. His value was acknowledged as necessary and given a space where he could serve. The Hulk (the proverbial shadow) no longer had to sneak in through an emotional tear in the veil and outrageously control the mental space until he exhausted himself. Bruce Banner and the Hulk were synchronized, a synergetic being on purpose. In this state he did not lose control, he took control. Gone was the instability of Hulk’s temper tantrum endangering all. Where they had been one flesh and separate minds, now they were of one flesh and mind united by spirit of purpose, path, and passion. A divided soul is an unstable being, a shifty character, no matter how well intentioned.
As of late, my schedule has been hectic to say the least. I was shifting gears fast and furiously racing back and forth from project to the idea of peace in a whirlwind of mounting destructive habits. Little sleep, spotty eating, and any another other byproduct of just short of chaotic, was taking its toll. I was raggedly transforming from the beast to the mild mannered scientist tossed back and forth by the reality of deadlines and obligations. It’s a good place to be in, where my art and expertise are in demand. However, my response to meet the demands, I realize, are NOT sustainable. Perhaps, this is part of what James Baldwin refers to as the price of the ticket -what we are willing to give up or sacrifice for what we want to have, be, and do. The most common and unwise sacrificial lamb on that altar is ourselves. Subsequently, our families, loved ones, career, and all else within the sphere of our influence, pay a price far above market value. The list is long…(To be continued..)
Since it’s dawn, 2023 has been a year of funerals. Not that I haven’t had some wonderful times already, but the funerals services that dot the landscape are constant reminders that this particular vessel has an expiration date. On last evening, as I am visiting relatives in a nearby city, I was watching the news with them. I never watch the news at home. Reel after reel, there were reports on tragedy after tragedy, stacked up to a hope crushing plethora of what is wrong with our world.
My mind traveled back to last weekend as I walked barefoot in the grass around the 40 acre estate to clear my head and ground myself. I picked and sniffed tiny wild hyacinth blooms, enjoying the cool grass beneath my feet springing anew from the earth in patternless patches of green. Life again rising up from the drying effects of winters clutch. I looked down and saw the fanned out wings of a small bird. Neatly positioned in the center of the symmetrical design was its skull, perfectly whitened and cleaned like some tiny movie prop. I knelt down on both knees and retrieved the skull with a small stick. The tiny brown beak protruded from the whitened form of the skull. Even in this state, there was a beauty and mystery present. Some time ago this creature had been airborne, flying high in the sky from place to place, experiencing life. Now the remains, the vessel lay in the budding grass, spirit departed, shell left to return to the earth from whence it came. This is the cycle, I was reminded. The cycle of life.
A few steps over, a ladybug emerged with the most intense colors, I ve ever seen. It crested a blade of grass and crossed over to my outstretched hand and rested there. I observed in that moment the simple miraculous stages. The dead stick, the hyacinth reaching upward, the moving ladybug, and the skull of the bird. I took out my phone and suspended the moment in time. The lady bug was shy and opted out of the photo. My mind shifted gears and the prompting to count it all joy came over me. I thought of the Yowa, also known as Kongolese cosmogram – the wheel of life that encompasses the physical and spiritual worlds. The two hemispheres are equally divided with as much on one side as the other. In the center we find the crossroads. At times we all catch glimpses of the space called the crossroads.
I took a deep breath of gratitude and made a conscious decision to enjoy the parts of life that I will while I can. Realizing that each aspect of our experience is part of the cycle and not all will bring smiles. Tears are also ingredients in the recipe. Nevertheless it our recipe to mix and experience as we choose, to see what we see, and live as we will…as the world turns.
“The journey through life is filled with wonder, challenges, broken hearts, extreme highs and lows, celebrations, special moments and memories that define our experience as a human. It is these events, planned or unexpected, that impact our travels and define our purpose.” -Livingwelldyingwell.org
I took a break from the life hustle and took a walk this past weekend with my youngest daughter. As we talked, it became very obvious that we saw our excursion quite differently, even though we were physically in the same space. She wanted to know where we were going. I just wanted to be where I was in the moment. Those two ideas or ideals of existence seem to be at constant odds in my own life. People are always telling me to slow down, take it easy, enjoy the ride. I hear them but, I counter, I’m on a mission. I often have to remind myself to “Trust the process”. Either way it’s revealed to us or we choose to see, it’s going from one place to another… or is it?
We’ve all probably seen the Ralph Waldo Emerson quote on calendars, mugs, mousepads, posters, and pretty much anything else in print “Life is a journey, not a destination.” The complication that comes with claiming life a journey, not a destination, is that is seems to suggest that we must always be going, traveling to somewhere beyond here. It’s like being on a bus and seeing where you would like to get off but can’t because the vehicle has somewhere to be. That becomes the proverbial hamster wheel of life for so many of us. We are going through life rather than being in life. Compare that to going through love rather than being in it. People like me who always feel an incredible magnitude to movement are compelled to be perpetually on the go. This puts me in a position of feeling productive only when I am in motion. I know this is not healthy and may even be counter productive. Everything need periods of stasis to fuel dynamicity and vice versa. In the times when I’m feeling that I have to turn way up to get there because of lost time, I start the coaxing, trust the process. Trust the process. The time wasn’t lost, It was invested…planted.
The questioning that sprang from thinking on these things brought me to the root word of question itself, quest: a noun first that means a search or pursuit made in order to find or obtain something. As an action word we search, seek, or pursue. We live in that state, whether we realize it or not. Even when I take those walks with no set destination I am still in quest for something, whether it be simply fresh air or peace or peace of mind. Seeing life as a quest seems to allow far more time and space to just be rather than be doing. This inspires a more natural unfolding over a forced making of things to be.
A quest is both personal and universal in that we are on it in a world filled with others who are on theirs and we interact in what we called relationships – an essential part of a quest. No one part of the quest carries more weight than the other. The periods of rest and recreation and periods of intense einitiative are all in the recipe of your quest. Each part of the equation adds up to who and what we are in this space. Whether it’s a walk along a dirt road with my daughter or the work that earns me a Nobel Peace Prize, it’s all a part of the quest. We get to title it how we will, underscored. We are the sum total of everything we have touched and been touched by. It’s an inescapable reality of being…in quest.
Awakened early this morning at that consistent sleep interrupting 3am hour. Here I am with Sun Ra and space stuff taking me up. In 1960 the National Aeronautics and Space Administration established a presence in Huntsville, AL in the form of the Marshall Space Flight Center. This action would be another key in door above the foundation of this present city and the world. Over two decades before that, however, a young man by the same of Herman Poole Blount enrolled as a music education student at The State Agricultural and Mechanical Institute for Negroes (Now Alabama A&M University). Just over a year into his studies, he found himself on the edge of the campus thinking about his direction in life. As the story goes, “a beam of light that took him to Saturn” set him on the path to become the outer-space visionary that the world knows as Sun Ra, musician extraordinaire, and father of Afrofuturism.
By the time Dr. Wernher von Braun was gaining speed in Huntsville in the 50’s, Sun ra had already established his Arkestra and was well on his voyage. That was a loaded sentence, weighted with the names of two pioneers in space science. What is it about this little southern town tucked into the hollow of North Alabama, that took it from “the watercress capital of the world.” to leader in the aerospace and research industry? Is it the magical red clay, the “space dust” that Redstone Arsenal sits on and is named after? Also note that Redstone Arsenal was home to thriving black communities like Pond Beat and Mullins Flat. They lost their land and established way of life to Redstone Arsenal. Ironically, the Von Braun Center named after Dr. Wernher von Braun sits on the site that was once Alabama A&M University. Some say there is no such thing as coincidence. I’m inclined to concur. This Alabama red clay is rich with the blood of our ancestors. They left their magic in this hallowed ground.
With that, I am perplexed as to why the city has no monument to Sun Ra. While nationally and internationally he is held in the highest esteem, many people who live in the city have no idea who he is. Another hidden figure in American history. He was the undaunted pioneer who set the precedent. He was first to explore outer space and/or that space in which we can believe in the impossible. I am going to make sure there is a monument, not just to honor Sun Ra, the man and myth, but the miraculous possibilities that he brought to light and the inspiration to explore those possibilities.
“I came from a dream that the black man dreamed long ago. I’m actually a presence sent to you by your ancestors.” ― Sun Ra,
Every so often, besides the selling of work, artists talks, interviews, articles, and great reviews, I receive those potent rays of light that hit my soul just right. These instances underscore the why of the what that I do. On yesterday I received a message on Instagram from an art teacher. She shared the art and work description of one of her students. Almost equally impressive and inspiring was the fact that she, the teacher, included me in the canon alongside artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kara Walker, Kehinde Wiley, and Jacob Lawrence, to name a few. This is the student’s expression regarding the project…
Medium: Acrylic paint on canvas
Title of Piece: Oshun
“Intention: I was inspired by Jahni Moore’s artwork. I wanted to paint a black woman similar to his style. He painted realistically. That is why I focused on the lighting and contour of her skin like in his painting “E Pluribus Unum”. His shadows were very dark and contrasted well with the lighter parts of the painting. My favorite color is blue so I wanted to incorporate a lot. I even tried to give her a cooler skin tone to compliment the blue. The meaning of my painting is a black woman who is confident, beautiful, and powerful, like me.”
Needless to say, I was touched, moved to continue, and all that good stuff. A timely reminder to never negate the power of inclusion; the importance of people being able to see themselves included in the acceptable and respected walks of life. It goes a long way towards self image perception, reception, and emotional health. That which we do and do unapologetically in terms of our “work” is of immense value. It’s far more important than we realize sometimes. Let us keep doing what we do with a level of imposed impunity. You never know who you will inspire or be inspired by. I know there’s someone believing in you, rooting for you, needing you to keep doing what you do. There are people who need to see that, like me.
“If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him.” John F. Kennedy
As we stand on the precipice of yet another ledge of change no less constant, I find a peace in the fact that we can still imagine. We can still tap into that inner space (the real final frontier), unhindered if we so choose, and mine its untapped genius. This genius is not determined by intelligence quotients or statistical brainwave data. It has the distinct ability to see beyond the seen, a possibility no less available than what we place on canvas, paper, screen, stage, or film. Our imagination lends us sight beyond seeing. Let us see what we can truly see.
How does our ecosystem and imagination connect? Is not the ecosystem bound by a set of biological rules, chemical recipes, and set occurrences while the imagination is unbridled? How does one imagine a world?
“The Creator built this world from the timber of creative imagination.” Wintley Phipps, singer, songwriter, record producer, minister, and founder of the U. S. Dream Academy…
Is reimagining life on earth a reconfiguration of the same puzzle pieces into an alternate configuration? In case we find ourselves looking to create a new world, we must first go within. There can be no true revolution without unfiltered revelation. If so, we run the risk of a repeat, with only a change in roles and regimes. Our so-called solutions, then, would only serve as topical bandages and behavior modification. True change is rooted in the thinking. To truly create from scratch, we must be willing to dig deep and question everything we think we think we know about history, religion, education and other social systems. Even our own family dynamic which yielded the person we think we are.
We would also have to question art as an institution and its western canonical origins. Why we prefer to see what we see, and our overall perception of what art is. We could be much more just if we developed sight beyond the seen and see with more than the visual eye. Our physical visual perceptions have been tainted with a biased story that affects every decision we make, consciously and unconsciously.
The most common denominator we all hold is that of spirit. Spirit has no denomination or delineation. It just is. That’s where the real sight is. The real imagination. One that allows us to truly see each other beyond the labels ands packages. I’m not advocating that we are all the same or need to be. I prefer many colors on my palette. I am advocating however that those things become secondary to life itself. No different than a yellow or red rose, a long or short stem. It’s still a rose and the essence is that of a flower.
This is a call for a resurrection of spirit, a soul revival. Art has the capacity to serve as that arc of electrical impulse that awakens, reuniting us in and through spirit. That’s the X factor. The missing element. The resurrection. Art is an acronym for A Resurrecting Truth. A truth that awakens each one of us to ourselves with the ability to see with heart over hang-ups. That is the new Earth awakening; a reimagined life in the cosmos. Art is the language that can cut through all the labels and packaging. Art at its foundation, is soul speak. A language of the spirit that speaks beyond verbal communication. Let us release ourselves to the pull of the cosmic order beyond fear, bridge ancestral distances, and resurrect truth. I am convinced that it will set us free and inspire the awakening of the new world from within.
B.A.D.A.R.T. Bridging Ancestral Distances And Resurrecting Truth
Notes of A Native Son 