For a Tear is an intellectual thing,
And a Sigh is the sword of an Angel King,
And the bitter groan of the Martyr's woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.

~William Blake from "The Grey Monk"

I know it sounds insane, but in the last several years I have actually felt the need to defend intellect as I have witnessed a groundswell of bad will toward use of the brain, complete with the assumption that intellect contains no "heart".  I cannot separate heart and mind taking a cue from Jesus who taught that as we think with our hearts, so we are. 

Likewise, I agree with Richard Blackstone who indicates that as we think, so we create: 

"As a master creator here on the plain of manifestation you understand that all of your creations have their genesis in the thoughts you think. The beauty of thoughts is that if you are thinking a thought that doesn't serve you it can always be changed."

Now that's good thinking. 

Mens regnum bona possidet

                  Toonces Rodriguez

                       1990 - 2008

Sometimes you need more than an arch; you need to see rainbows dance.

Think about it... 

Episcopal Church & Visual Arts (ECVA) has published online its Advent Exhibition, Light of the World, which opens with my favorite Christmas scripture: 

"When peaceful silence lay over all,
and the night had run half of her swift course,
your all powerful word, O Lord, leapt down from heaven,
from the royal throne." Wisdom 18:14,15

Curator, Peggy Parker, selected the work of 30 artists who work in multiple disciplines, each addressing the theme of the coming of Christ as the light of the world.  My work above included in the exhibition, Dominus Illuminatio Mea, is an image of bracelets introduced into our church by a former member.  It was a nice idea, but I have yet to see that illumination happen in that venue.  

But we keep on wearing our bracelets and keep on asking. 

Here I invite you to imagine a digital design calling card and the world in which it might reside in your imagination.  Does a distant memory form or a desire for some thing more surface?  Can we still imagine like children?  Do we have dreams of beauty flicker in our eyes like the eyes of babies mesmorized by stained glass windows and symmetrical faces?  Can we dream our dreams like no one else's?  Tell me your dream, take me to your secret garden, and I'll share mine with you.  Doesn't creation encourage creation?

I grow weary with the snobbery of artists who do not understand the potential of digital art, particularly digital text. Design is design, with or without the smell of paint permeating the creative process. Art offers an invitation to the viewer to come close and examine, to feel something one might otherwise fail to feel, to imagine a concept or subject matter that stimulates the senses and makes some slight imprint on the emotions.Whether the viewer is aware of it or not,when the design invitation is accepted, unformed stories flicker in the imagination like an almost remembered dream.  Have you had a dream lately that is worth struggling to remember? 

This image was inspired by the Persian myth of a man named Ferhad who went into the desert to die because he was rejected by the woman he loved.  As his tears fell to the ground, tulips sprang from the sand.  The myth reminds me of the Southern American myth of the Cherokee Rose, the State flower of Georgia, produced by the tears of Indians along the Trail of Tears.  Interesting, isn't it, how themes of myths are repeated across cultures and centuries, often speaking to forms of resurrection, good prevailing over evil, joy produced from pain, blessings found in places of complete defeat with no escape.

There is an energy in pain.  When it is born, endured and reorganized, this energy has the potential for forming the greatest gift of beauty.  Frehad could have engaged in many destructive responses to the betrayal he experienced, even including taking his own life.  But by enduring the pain and engaging in the brutal honesty of tears in his powerlessness, he was the first person to see the magnificent beauty of the tulip.  At that startling moment of resurrection blessing I suspect Ferhad could not so much as remember the name of his betrayer.