What shows
how little
we know?
What can be is
oft far less than
what we expect.
What is now
has never been
what it was.
07/25/2024 j.g.l.
value beyond
Simplicity.
Is there emotion in austerity?
Humanity?
What do you see when attempting
to define your limited visibility?
Minimalism, abstract impressionism
or incorporeal thought.
Less is more, but is it enough?
Texture, tone, and value beyond
your current scene. If you take it to an
extreme, you will question
what it means.
What is really there?
What line do you cross?
Can simplicity be complicated, or
should it even be attempted?
07/23/2024 j.g.l.
Mondays are just young Fridays
Things will not go as planned. Intentions will be disrupted, even overlooked, in the aftermath of an unexpected reality.
Where you are headed will not be the place you end up, undoubtedly or undeniably. No matter how hard you attempt to make each gesture, brushstroke, promise, prayer, or pastime as perfect as you believe it can be, many times you will not arrive at a perceived destination. All too often your endeavors never hit the mark; at times your work may be better than expected (celebrate those moments), but everything (even your judgement) is subjective.
You are not limited to, or by, the colours in your paintbox or progression of your process.
Imagination is as limited or expansive as you want it to be. Give it time to blossom; in certain instances, you may even have to reel it in. This is all about possibilities, no matter which media, method, or style you are beholden to.
You owe your art (or life) nothing but your presence; the value comes from the practice, as rudimentary or spontaneous as it is or will become.
07/22/2024 j.g.l.
I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Commitment
Posted on May 9, 2018 by j.g.lewis
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11 p.m. almost. Subway to streetcar. Transfer.
Arms full of everything. Another stop. Waiting.
Small cup of coffee, downtown McDonald’s.
Her son now asleep across her lap, in a parka
for comfort more than warmth.
Gently her fingers trace the soft brow.
Her smile is faint.
Still in her teens; too young for motherhood.
She called it an accident, and not a mistake.
Mistakes are missing the bus, leaving a sock
at the laundromat, or forgetting her lunch
in the rush to make it to her dead-end job,
or daycare. Accidents happen.
Left home at sixteen, who would know
if her own mother even cared. Or noticed.
Her son is everything.
Only a partner, not much older than her,
but still here. His family is far away,
and still not there. He has a purpose.
Commitment is a word they both respect.
Love grows when allowed.
He works two jobs.
The streetcar ride is time together.
November is chilly. Lost in a big city.
Together. They often use the word family.
Too much is riding on chance
and the next paycheque. Rent, bills, diapers,
groceries and the unexpected.
She eats less, not always by choice.
He says he wants more; he will work for it.
He does. Soon off work, another streetcar.
Subway transfer, then home
to all they can afford. Together.
You will see, she whispers to the sleeping child,
more often than not money is not as important
as they make it out to be.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
