In An Organic Garden

In my “Abstract Stories” series, those atmospheric spaces became increasing bounded by spontaneously drawn shapes. Painted in shades of ochre-tinted white –the color of bone-- the enclosed spaces began to take on shapes that suggested something as intimate and normally hidden as bone; organic shapes that suggest body parts unveiled here and there as though to tease a lover.
T.S. Eliot ends his poem with, ”Our lot crawls between dry bones to keep our metaphysics warm.”
I explore the interface between passion and the intellect, pulsing tissue and desiccated bone.
Our lot may be to crawl through our mortal span but, like the poet, we also sing.