seesawandsaysay is my artist aka. I paint and I write. I am inspired by my three year old daughter and Basquiat, Klee, Pollock, McCahon and Gimblett, with a touch of Rothko. I write poetry when it hits me and I've written a novella called Even Time, and have more books to come. I live in New Zealand with my wife and two little girls and I believe their innocence is the most precious thing in the world.
Abstract art is for me a way to think outside the norm, to let go of expectations and to try and see things a little differently, even if only for a moment. Abstract art defies terms or classification, is outside of borders or -isms, it exists merely because it can and does and the meaning is ambiguous, much like life itself.
All eyes see differently, with their own biases and desires, wants and needs, and an image can mean a million different things to a million different people. Abstract art doesn’t preach, it offers itself up in humbleness and piety and those who wish to worship can, those who wish to question can, and those who wish to ignore, can.
Abstract is uniqueness, it is a term designed to provide a context when context is not the most important thing. The most important thing is that you feel something, anything and consider yourself for a moment.
It is a way to create without expectation, to form freely with complete innocence, child like and full of hope, and convey an element of yourself that cannot be put into words.
a poem is conceived in private
much like a child
the wild, Holy consummation, all consuming
born of love
but bearing so much pain and suffering,
muffled cries, truths and lies,
sometimes the difference is hard to find.
I was born with bated breath,
fresh and clean,
once they wiped off the blood and amniotic fluid
and cut the cord
scissors like a sword
severing the most sacred connection
that I will ever know.
I was born to it
and there is no place quite like home.
Poetry is the forsaken cry, the loneliest voices with the loudest minds,
captured in ink, blighted by drink, or bolstered,
emboldened with the bravado to think big,
to sing on a page,
to rage against the silence of days
spent drifting through the passive malaise,
the love of something and not for how it pays.
Poetry is the air up there, despair in the mind of a scribe
at not being able to fly, so it is
the flight of birds described by those who live in unknowns
to those who dream of being free.
Poetry is anything between a sucker punch or a long lunch,
a coupe de grace or a warm embrace.
It’s the lines of life in a face,
the wrinkled space between
never and eternity.