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.
My January Breath
Posted on January 29, 2022 by j.g.lewis
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Snowflakes. Only movement.
Twilight comes until twilight goes.
Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.
The deeper the night, the colder
the darkness.
My January breath suspended,
my thoughts wishing to go
somewhere. Anywhere, other
than here. A deafening
winter silence.
The air is slow. Still. Almost.
Alone, even in the shadow
of the streetlamps. Nobody to
shield your ears from the cold
or dampen the inevitable.
Pointless the task, reviewing patterns
and paths carved into the cartography of
the ego. Realization. What once was
may never be. This season
stays the longest.
Even with full sunlight. The wind,
should it decide, rips through me.
Harsh. I am not here. Not really.
Permanent as my
January breath.
Flurries obscure constellations and
the Moon. Isolation. The circumference
of my being is reduced, Limited.
Blinded by temporal beauty,
or tears.
Nothing has happened, or is
happening. The brazen chill
clashes with body heat, the atmosphere
the victor. Obvious. The world
still gets in your eyes.
Time agape with a grey known only
to the night. A solitary trek through the
ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates
the soul-crushing scream
of a thousand snowflakes.
Beneath winter’s fickle façade, the ice
cracks, The fragility of the planet apparent.
Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.
Gone. Time stands still. This is
my January breath.
©2015 j.g. lewis
