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meaningful:

Beau·ty (byoo’t) n. The quality that gives pleasure to the mind or senses and is associated with such properties as harmony of form or color, excellence of artistry, truthfulness, and originality.
–Webster’s


“What attracts my artistic eye...? beauty is mutable, not static.
Beauty lurks... divergent, preternatural, miraculous, alive. One must intend its presence...

Beauty is not just ‘in the eye of the beholder’, but is beckoned by it...”

–Lb

what is Art?
Thou art.

–Lb

To a large degree the focus of my life's interest has been searching for an intrinsic meaning and value in our existence as well as to discover a direct language by which to convey this meaning without chance of misinterpretation.

I have found to date that so far as human existence is concerned, it seems that it has no inherent value of its own accord. That is not to say there isn't any value at all. What it does say is that it is up to each individual to attain one's own meaning and to set our own values; that over-all there may be an ideal, or some standard by which to measure one's ideal, these ideals are bound to be sourced beyond our grasp and like the nature of their creator–presumably GOD–are therefor ever evolving. Definitions change as knowledge increases. The universe is indeed expanding (as evidenced by my constantly having to fill up the seams of my apartment with caulk), its 'boundaries' pushed outward by the pressure of an exponentially increasing repertoire of knowledge. Assuming the impetus of awareness–to know–is the same force by which we've come into existence, does that make it ours... ? This vital impetus (I know a few individuals who seem to have had this impetus removed, like some non-functioning organ) forces us to construct edifice of ideas; gestalts and societies; yet we manufacture our lives with what, exactly? Nobody knows. The meaning or purpose of humanity, for the moment at least, lies beyond our scope!
Existence, however, has infinite meaning and value intrinsic to itself, and apparently, obvious: potential, fruition, celebration, abundance, beauty, love to name a few!

I have been interested in various considerations regarding the pitfalls in defining the boundaries between our subjective and objective experience. Though I love drama and mystery I tend not to want to dress up the issue. That we create our own lives was revealed to me at a young age. While easy to digress in realms of thought, this fact comes home tangibly (and boldly) through art, which at its purest has an abstract motive and therefore extends beyond what is tangibly self and may even touch altruism.

Supposing narcissism is an inescapable facet of human existence, then all that we know is the mark of our limits within ourselves; all that one understands in another is the depth to which one has mined one's own self; the dishonesty one encounters is in effect a reflection of one's own mistrust.... etc. What, exactly, does one see in the faces of others? Narcissism is not limited to the adoration of one's visage in reflection, but is the scope of human experience itself. How, then, does one break the mirror of self-reflection; to contact that which lies beyond the capsule of our corporeal selves? Perhaps death is the only such contact we have.....?
I experience life as a medium: it acts like an oracle at times, speaks to me, and I find myself interacting with my environment beyond the scope of my physical reach. These characteristics compel me to explore them.

The work: portrait painting, photography and figure drawing is for me often a means of evincing a sublime majesty in people that reveals itself only in moments of pure presence. Nothing so worthwhile can be contrived. The human species, on specific levels, may not have much to say for itself, but the eloquence of beauty spoken by fleeting expressions–like the dance of some elusive spirit upon the ever varying multitudes of faces–speak worlds.

Within the city, or in any given environment, there are an infinity of influences which affect in some way or another the directions I choose to follow in my life's work and on a personal, intimate level. Yet in New York especially there seems to live a vital extension–in its movement, not only within but upon its walls–profanely denounced as vandalism–of my own most private experience of consciousness. It is the unsurpressable open Forum of the Arts.

Who's work, specifically, inspires me? Sally Mann: her photographs are saturated with the mirky spectre of a timeless deep south–the eyes of children haunted with it. Any mother that can take such photos with her children openly displays a most admirable familial bond. She is one of few great photographers I'm aware of.
Chief among the influences of my personal style was Caravaggio, though this may not at first appear evident... and I marvel at the beauty and ease of draftsmanship of the works of Anders Zorn, especially his etchings, and Edgar Degas, but to list all that moves and inspires me requires volumes, and I cannot express my immense gratitude for the generosity of those who've paved the way, except in my resolve to proceed with my own expansions within the prodigious domain of the arts.

Thank you for taking a look.
–Lb

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