Art as Life/Life as Art

No matter what you may believe personally, it isn't hard to imagine that there is a higher power than ourselves somewhere out there; some god that's had a hand in the creation of the planet and the lives that inhabit it. This original Creator is the ultimate creator. Isn't it true that, (at certain points in their career,) all artists attempt to create something lifelike, something that comes close to measuring up to the ideal? Even the more abstract mediums start with reality and strip away aspects of it piece by piece. Truly the master of all forms, this post takes a look at some of our Creator's passing projects...

Sculpture

Any material can be played with, it all comes down to composition...

Often hidden, treasures lurk in the most unlikely of places...

Stone isn't the only usable resource, some materials are a little more temporary...

And some pieces are gone in the blink of an eye, often made more beautiful due to their brevity...

While others will outlast a millennia...

Crafted inch by inch to reach an epic scale...

Of course, some crafts are more complex despite being only a few inches to begin with...

But there is no sculpture more complex than the reasoning man; no art greater than life...

From The Lab

Show Me The Way or Forgive Me For Being Lost

With each grain of falling sand,
That's another pain I feel,
And I begin to doubt the plan,
That I, at one time, thought so real.

What hope lies for those of us
That want to believe, but can't?
Those who betray, and cannot trust,
All they can do is rave and rant.

There's not a doubt in my mind,
For I know that you exist,
Though I'm let down, time after time,
(So what kind of payback is this?)

Am I cursed to be denied
That which gets me through the day?
Now does it matter that we cry?
Does it affect you anyway?

I cannot help but question
These inhumane, cruel tactics,
'Till I recall the exception,
You'll never be us poor bastards.

Are we made in your image,
Fatherless imitations?
Will we learn it at the finish,
If we reached your expectations?

If this is the best it gets,
If this is all that there is,
It's no wonder we get depressed,
It's no wonder I still get pissed.

So will I always be this
Anonymous scrap of flesh?
See, I'm not trying to resist,
I'm just weary from all the tests.

If these words fall on deaf ears,
It could just add to my hate,
But there are no answers I hear,
Now all I have left is my faith.

From The Lab

A Guide To Stackin Paper

The facts stand clear, the options being few,
Hustle the world to balance crooked scales,
Develop talents, reach levels unseen,
Supply and demand with conscience stripped bare.
The snap of thick rubber bands drives the cause,
Dead presidents ease choices made of pain;
Our fiends, whether it be music or drugs,
Will always crave for tonics to escape.
If not from you, than rivals just like you,
With no such qualms about the game they play.
Dirty paper trails cleanly mark off turf,
Where only one could find a profit cleared;
So stick-up-kids, the moment lies ahead,
Now flip cheddar before the windows close.

From The Lab

A Little Heavy

With words fine as lace and painted with gold,
Drenched in conspiracy, against the square
Restless native, divided, conquer one;
Free to develop strength, nude and untamed,
Product of chemicals, potions and such
Substances crystal clear, murky as night,
Leave the blind vision, to stop and to stare,
At the heart of the flame, the core of truth,
To feed rough the ravenous, hungry dogs.
Repeat the same stories, the lesson sticks
And legends, bored, allow the veils to fade;
Let living keep the mysteries of life,
Absorbed through roots for the blossoming day.

From The Lab

The Spirit of Detroit?

"Blue-collar," "9-to-5," "Work hard, play hard,"
Exhausted, played out phrases, when it comes to
Detroit. Dangerous, desolate, deadly,
Adjectives all too commonly heard,
When it comes to Detroit.
Judge not the inner workings as an outsider;
Accept but your small slice of the spectrum,
Interpret a single experience at face value,
Nothing more.
Every facet reflects
A street corner, a moment, a dinner table's conversation;
The Life, The Death, The Scene.

The Spirit of Detroit?
The so-called spirit is potential;
It is little more than remainders,
Reminders, ghost like traces of history.
A city is many things, a collection
Of current trends, accomplishments, and the mistakes
Illuminated through hindsight's overbearing glow.
A city is individual, accompanied within the collective,
And subject to the same ups and downs an individual experiences.

A city divided against itself can stand,
Though only for a moment,
Solid foundations of character can be reduced in time,
Eroded into shaky blueprints and
Crumbled plinths. Dependency on the past
Is an antique dependency,
A thrown away idea,
Buried beneath the oily gearshifts, tires
Spent metal, rag, and glass of memory's junkyard.
Self made tough times are tough times
Nonetheless.

The needs of the few outweigh the many,
In this diluted, wolf-eat-dog trap/mentality/lifestyle.
Recreating. Thriving in the beginning
Where there was light
And dark. And passion;
Detroit is passion.
Passionate about Lions and Tigers and Wings,
Passionate about music and culture and fashion,
Passion which leads to love and hate. Life and death.
Light and Dark.
Even the strongest, brightest community hides a shadow in the back.
But a truth here is not twisted, as in other places,
It is revealed. Spotlight on the shadows,
Revealing the nasty bits that thrive within.
Knowing where not to step simplifies
An already difficult journey.

From The Lab

slow burn

Blows to the head that fog the eyes,
Lost, long gazes through the atmosphere,
Ticket for a trip through consciousness,
Annual vacation taken all damn year,
Rubber worn thin, challenging to steer,
Blown tires, fused, no brakes in Taylor Classics,
Lungs aflame, brain now in tune, nothing less than something drastic.

Seeking shamanistic cures,
Herbs and spices, blended rums,
Experimenting with the temple,
The earth may worship when I'm done,
Another rising phoenix disappearing in the sun;
Back to the clouds to taste the wind and elevate the mind,
Journeys for the holy grail, that first love left to find.

From The Lab

The Best You Can Hope For

Tested, time and time again,
Challenges met and conquered,
Friends to foes and foes to friends,
Developed back to monsters;
Battles not yet won or lost,
Decisions left in the air,
Lines one wishes were not crossed,
Of course, are no longer there.
The flow of days will travel,
The hours will never slow down,
The man whom built a castle,
Forgotten, is not around,
Built for men greater than he,
So his legend never lived,
But greatness, as like beauty,
In the beholder's eye, is.
Tread lightly down the pathway,
Leave nothing but your footsteps
And blaze the new trail, this day
Is your chance, lest your forget,
Walk upright, suppress the fear,
Not all change the tides of war,
Life was better with you here,
Is the best you can hope for.

From The Lab

Er, Conductor?

Fast stuck in a world of darkness,
Painful blow after painful blow,
Attempting to stay on target,
In bottom of the barrel flows,
Running slow, so we won't die tired,
Choosing paths on a trail surreal,
Admiring, as a trophy case,
As clear as glass, secrets revealed.
Holding on to forgotten strengths
Exploring cold and murky depths,
Of choppy waters, twisting and
Writhing long on the blood express,
Set the destination: Nowhere,
We'll just enjoy the scenic view,
Standing tall amongst the fallen,
All made that way because of you,
They overlooked your tendencies,
Is this strategy more earnest?
We're just as blind with far less fuel
To fill your still starving furnace,
That ancient engine, never seen,
Must we match in lowbrow tactics?
The high road's never seemed so far,
Or is that simply semantics,
And we should always stay on track,
Despite all the alternate routes,
That tempt us all along the way
With wicked whisper's forceful shout.
It's a game; surprised we noticed?
We, the many self-aware pawns,
With numbered seats and tickets punched,
Accepting the location drawn,
You've always had our attention,
Knowingly, the few have kept score,
Sure, you're leaving, but I'll choose to
Ignore that call of 'all aboard.'

From The Lab

Unstable Poet

When that old familiar ennui hits,
To disrupt the local thoughts of mind,
The one-eyed fool must lead the blind,
Through paths of darkness dimly lit.

Where trails were built to lead astray,
And leave the cyclops most afraid.
It matters not. Today's the day.

Despite the stick and stone of hate,
Some crystalline words are too fragile
To ignore the venomous rabble,
But a craftsman builds to dictate fate,

To reflect the world, its hopes and fears,
Twisting lies in funhouse mirrors,
To help their kin understand their tears.

Accepting reactions with nary a care;
All dried ink is a mark of the past,
Shadow truths beneath the looking glass,
Shrouded inside an underground lair.

Imbalanced and unable to see,
The effects of prophets small as he,
Staring down leaves, ignoring trees.

Lost defender of wisdom and wit,
In methods stolen from the first art,
The impact of intent, the frivolous lark,
Stowing skills away from the crypt.

Working in the boundaries of twilight,
Paralyzed by the size of the fight,
Another long day's journey into night.

From The Lab

Dues & Trenches

Drifting, lost in murky depths
Of oxygen and sunshine's bloom,
All around the people dance
In preparation of my tomb.

Their smiling faces, ever-light,
Proud of a day's work well done,
Little do they know I plan
To step in soon and spoil the fun,
O, I am not the only one,
Crushed under heavy-handed Fate,
See my knees pressed on the ground,
The only way to hold Her weight.

The world is just, in secret ways,
So help me just before I lose -
Don't need to win, just stay ahead,
According to my just paid dues.

Armed in shovel, will, and sweat,
Resting in trenches. Happily,
Digging shelters for future storms,
For that's the way it has to be.
In toil, lies worth, that's the key,
The mystery I've yet to learn,
Under the fire of the day
We curse the gods for getting burned.