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.
sullen circumstances
Posted on August 2, 2023 by j.g.lewis
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This is a city. These are the streets; a bed for some, deathbed for another. Another sister or another brother. Mine may well sleep in comfort, as I will when I stop thinking about economic uncertainty, global recession, personal depression, unconsciously random gun violence, the ever-escalating opiod crisis and the apparent absence of humanity. Yes, I try to give enough (or live enough) yet between unkempt obligations and the finality of it all, my patience is such that I mainly look on, voyeur-like. Even the shame has found a place I can comfortably live with. Guilt is such a useless emotion; I have convinced myself of such, thinking deeply and distractively of the ambivalent imbalance. There are those unhoused and incapable of making it on their own. Have we the time, or the means, to dig a little deeper, even lessen the extremes? How can we when most of us know these sullen circumstances are maybe a paycheque or two away from a reality most of us refuse to acknowledge. Will you, can you, imagine what it feels like to go without? Are you comfortable with that? This is the air we breath, the toxic humidity of greed and misfortune forced upon a society entirely unsure of its way, ushered on by politicians entirely missing the point, incapable of imagining a city beyond their beliefs. This is a city I feel I no longer belong in. These are the streets I only walk on, stepping through people discarded along the way like tainted needles and dog shit. This is a sadness I feel I only know is there. There is the certainty of shame.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
