“every society honours its live conformists and its dead troublemakers.” (mignon mclaughlin)
he sweats, he grasps, he moans, in his lifetime he reaches for the stars.
isn’t the kingdom of heaven reserved for the dead?
is art like life?
the page is completely white. it is complete.
and now i give it a story, mine, any, its own. even the materials are vital. what paper to use, smooth? rippled, thin, high-grade, thick? what size. will it fit on a normal sized page. and what should i write the story with, a pencil, 3b, hb, 2h, a coloured pencil, chalk, acrylics, watercolours?
what does this all mean for life? are those our circumstances? or are they the tools that we were given to carry on our way. do we have a mission to fulfil? does a picture pursue an explicit goal?
is it about constructing one’s life in beauty and harmony like the portrait taking shape on the page.
and what of the smears, the fears and doubts, the inadequacies, the weaknesses that make a picture so “human”.
so, he reached for the stars.
his father, a swedish missionary of baptist persuasion on a tour to win new followers in deepest france. albi, the seat of a catholic archbishop, as religiously conservative as it gets. the father’s target audience, mostly portuguese, economic migrants, cheated of language and respect.
mother, a norwegian woman at her husband’s side. more about her later.
the father, speaking from the pulpit: my congregation, give your hearts to the lord.
he, a boy just barely three years old, asks his mother what that means.
mother: your heart belongs to jesus. it is your gift to the lord.
he, seeking a solution in peace: he can have my heart, but my head belongs to me.