[The Impression of Play] on Cici James's [The Book Proprietress]

Living life between the covers within other lives isn't a bad place to be; it's where the artist has existed for the last 40,000 years, when the primitive began to scribble hieroglyphics on the walls of caves. We must presume not too long following, there came an instance when one of those primitive scribes pierced himself fatally, utilizing his own blood to attain a posthumous honor of becoming the unnamed martyr to absorb the writer into artist.

We see a woman, a proprietor, a direct ancestor in this lengthy bloodline from the primitive artist yet unnamed, pose bare amongst her books, half her body indistinguishable from the many tomes aligned on the shelves, then we see the beauty of not just the woman but the woman who represents an indivisible bond between the artist and the endless published doctrines which keeps him a slave to art, which confirms that the triumph of the individual over art is and has always been a mythical feat.

Many years have been lost to us; when we were younger, we were free to allow them to pass unmolested and between the beginning and the now, there is space,a response, stimulus, obedience to the paradoxes not in the interest of others and not in the interest of ourselves. The way this feels in the severe flanking of hands is completely foreign, non-responsive to gorgeous words, the elder frequency frequently dissecting edges of creation, wilting characteristics, silent obscenities, first observed umbilical conflict, catapulting the remainder of a world left purposefully so that unbearable disruption just may situate itself on the perimeter of the inappropriate, where my eyes first obtained vision, and after three decades of a hiatus, regained a vital force to gain their distinctio
n to see all the beauty in Cici James's nude representation of a woman no longer belonging to herself, but to the sadomasochistic relationship of writer and reader, bondage of the bygone greats, the impression of play between the mind and the soul, as the body lies bare, exposed, authentic and true.

by Dontrell Lovet't

[La Dolce Vita] on Opal's [The Elephant Gift to the Rat]

There's nothing more dubious,rather tragically comical, than a fearful being ingratiating a phobia; in the sense of the world as most whose lived it long enough to recall limitless pitfalls, prematurely, we label it lunacy. Outside of the in-the-box beliefs and idealization, wouldn't it be so much more
a sweeter life if we could simply bribe away those phobias with the exact cost they enact?


by Dontrell Lovet't

[Faceless;Chrysalis] On Amy Judd's [Mute Butterfly, 2013]

She's the woman nobody knows, the one who wonders why wandering amongst millions of people still leaves her without a face to be recognized.

Can there be a moreso double-edged resilient and frail existing things than the woman and the butterfly?

The original named given to a Buttefly was "Futterby," described almost inaccurate in the old English description, as a butterfly's stark colors, darling flight and becoming is of vast wonderment by everyone and everything that lays its  eyes upon it. Color brings dimension,offers an animate state, a zenith to serve as the platform in which to take flight. The woman, the reason humanity exist and why men have many times over waged wars over the rights of them, relentlessly evolves, socially and physiologically, lending to her stock, adding the buy-in to her heart an almost significant amount for the average man to ever accumulate; a greater difference; I've never figured a butterfly,its instincts notwithstanding,to ever feel the need for the natural world around it to validate its existence. It is against any laws of physics that may work against it, any form of modernism displacing its biome, its indication of Spring and a new year where all things bloom as beautifully as wayward flowers, the same bringing about repetition of evolution, events happening as anything inhabiting the earth, becoming disrupted by a new being not purposeful in its ability to usher in a pre-existing species into bondage, then soon after to an extinction not to the will and rights of its own self-destruction.

Will anyone ever know who this woman is? Will anyone ever inquire as to why no one knew before? Amy Judd only gives us the contours, replacing the physiogomy
with the variant visions we know nature never forfeits.




by Dontrell Lovet't