Tomorrow is the release date for The Love Symphony, the music so hard worked on in December. I thought it would be nice to have some sort of performance or live première, and a quick mention of this led to one thing and then another and as a result I had a quick meeting today a few students at the local campus of Manchester Metropolitan University, with an aim to putting on performance to accompany the music.
It went well and I'm excited about trying some performance art for the first time. I want beauty to be the heart of it, to make something that isn't a weird avant garde show in any respect apart from innovation and general amazement!
My poetry book is just about complete. I've added lots of the small token images but not everyone thinks it's a good idea because these paintings are not like my type of art. I'm unsure. On balance I'd rather add more content than less, and the colours, I think, make it special. Either way, this is one book and not a long term change in policy. This year I will certainly paint the most accomplished and spectacular paintings of my life so far. Logic makes that clear; as each artist gets better year on year, generally. So I'll simply ignore the pressure that the sentence two sentences back put me under. Tee hee.
Here is a first glimpse of more love, the broken heart from The Love Reliquary which is now complete. I'm unhappy with the quality of the box, the gilding in particular which is horrid and wrinkly. The veneer is also a mess. But I know how to fix both of those problems next time, and must take comfort from that.
All of that makes me wonder very deeply about entropy which I've been worrying about for a few weeks. If artists get better over time, why must all things deteriorate? I can understand that all things must, but wonder if this is really true. If time travel, even at micro atomic scales, is possible then entropy would be regained and recycled somewhere. Memory and experience are products of time that only work in one direction, and they seem to create order, not destroy it. Is the lack of memory in a cooling bar of iron what pulls it towards cold lack of information?
I must paint this if I reach a startling new conclusion. Like my painting of Roger Penrose discovering that the Universe is the shape of a giant jellyfish. Which I didn't in the end paint. Ooops.
This musing was created by listening to A Curious Feeling by Tony Banks, a CD given to me by my friend Simon for Christmas. It's brilliant, although it took a few listens and (definitely!) knowledge of the story to love it like I now do. It's about a short story called Flowers For Algernon which is so good, so moving and well thought out that I can think of only a few ways to improve it, and non of my ways probably do, actually. I must write more stories! I have some great ideas for novels. Oh for the time to write. To Paint! To write music! To scuplt! To write scripts! And poems! Oh for more years! More youth! More health! More life! Slightly less imagination, perhaps is the answer. Adieu my friends.
