Art by Enrique Martinez Celaya - Poem by Laurence Fuller
A word, a single word, it lands on the heart of the boy like the omen of his life. It’s sound shudders through the blade, it rings through the metal heat powered up to the scolding time of a blazing clutch double gripped. Self reliance; defy the authorities of the day that comply until favorite chance and time of life delays.
Reaching out to the void for an unknown spontaneous thought to manifest our deep longing to solution pain.
The Sword - by Enrique Martinez Celaya
Though regaining a sense of who we are without all that strange discomfort, therein is the essence of self, and throwing a javeline in the dark like an ancient hunter in the night to spike. To make the tribe proud lead with hands out only baring gifts. Show that golden pools that art is an eternal gift to humankind and to yourself. Each piece is an act of love. The deeper one’s connection to the work, the more it will mean to someone else.
The Other World by Enrique Martinez Celaya
This sword cast glowing red from the fire of indulgence that bled from the embers of delicious sticky surrender. There when the calling of that great will that ferocious passion that fires the morning to the dawn. Night flushes out the madness of the day. Staring deep into that fiery reflection. There boy is your omen, this the will of all mankind, to the crusade of all we see.
The Fiery Wound - by Enrique Martinez Celaya
Art must come from life, not art about art. The smallest moments in life are the greatest represented and remembered through the soul.
Hear that touch from the father, cherish the perpetual pulse from the earth’s core that burden of the best this life has to offer, the happy few on the mountain tops of man there in that discomfort where the baddest of them roam.
Omens posses his stance in the suredness of knowing. It was the voice not of a King but of a prophet that pierced the sharp silence in the farrier’s atelier.
It spoke to the indefinite moment there with the real artist guided by his own enforcing legacy on himself seeks the fortune of the future beckoning the heart, the trust, the guild, the will, there for the pilgrimage of the statement back scratched and open eyed yet lying blind, humming lyrics in auspice, he hears the tutor falling back on their knowledge of the past known events of already digested cliches, recedes to speech. There and only there can they speak, they look back to stay back, but the prophet uses the past to move forward. And so, the word falls in front of them and it’s guidance only means for others to follow them and there within the walls of an enclosed and comforting place in the hypothetical. To teach, one day, if lucky, one noble heart.
And to that opinion we take solace in our action, the artist makes real what the educator cannot. The artist manifests in all direction the objects of their desire, chalices of fortune.
That word - Augury