John Pelham Black

from my perspective

Other Pages

Art

An Art for the Horrible End of Things

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What art can we make from despair, anonymity, failure, poverty, disease, deterioration, subjugation, folly, rejection? What if our feelings are of regret, bitterness, confusion, envy, fear, cowardice? Where is the quixotic pixie dust, the creative alchemy that can transform this mess into art?

Flocking birds

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I love swarms of birds, unique independent individuals flocking together as one. Humans, too, are social creatures; we, too, are each unique and independent but tend to move in unison. It is only by cruel survival instinct that we are so often blind to how much we depend on and follow along with each other. The illusion is strong that we are acting alone. But mostly unseen to us, we are moving in tight formation.