WITH THE TRACERY OF FINGER STROKE
I’m drawing on light, the smooth sheen of glass — pouring the blackest, aged India Ink, some decades old — a collection of bottles from the past. And that spreads a pool of raven spatters, swirled in a whorl with my fingers, as tools — drafting the spin of tornados. From there, the heat of the glass surface dries the pigment, as the powders combine to outline the center of the storm.
But in the center of any stormway, there is always the path out, every spinning sets in motion another threading — the string that draws the spinner out.
And the path can be inward, into the heart of the stormcast, or outward beyond that circle.
I’ll go with either, in the drawing of the cast — I’ve been there, to both. And the fingerprints capture their own spell, they move on the weathered front, printing their own minuscule strokes, one on another, newly found.
And the light comes from within.
TIM | THE PIKE PLACE MARKET
GIRVIN | DRAWING OTHER WORLDS