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For the visual metaphorist, the
distance between the I and the eye is a mindscape
of possibilities. Works seem to materialize and
actualize themselves in balanced compromise between
that which is seen and that which is
possible. Visions which obey no laws of physicality
within the I's Inner Studio must comport themselves
in accordance with the rules and regulations of
physical certitudes when objectified within the
space of the Outer Studio. Sometimes this
transference - this compromise - can be a painful
recognition of limitations.
This transfer from inner to
outer is no less difficult for the language
metaphorist. Though abstracted, physicality
persists: gravity, density, flow, cohesion, weight
- all exist and must be deferred to in the
articulation of language. As a sculptor, I have
come to love the tactility of words, the weight of
phrases, the balance of sentences, and the infinite
subtle coloring and contours of ideas. I love to
write. I love putting it down, covering white
planes with silvered lines of cadence. Rolling the
pencil to avoid a slurring continuity. Erasing and
building of palimpsest upon a single word
ungrasped. The sweet persuasion of descending
mass...and the walking lines of concept.
It is so like sculpture. No
wonder in recent work words have begun wandering
across the jotting walls of process. There is no
barrier to restrain them....
Six of the lectures assembled
here were written during the decade of my thirties
and, correspondingly, the 1960s; a time of trying
to find one's place in things:
For many metaphorists, the 1960s
was a struggle for survival. Aesthetics were being
replaced by relevancy on the stage of mainstream
culture and all participants, whether spotlighted
or in shadow, were ensnared in the drama. Cast in
the role of effete elitist, I and others
were invited, on occasion, to speak - to keep the
play lively and, of course, realistic with a few
cries of anguish, sentimental complaint, even,
perhaps, an idea or two. When asked to speak, I
seldom refused.
The lectures are dense, obscure
even. Meant to impress. Convoluted at times and
often pretentious. I was, after all, fighting for
survival amidst the calculated and ruthless
devouring of California's art scene by the New York
establishment. If there is a bit of the blowfish at
semblance here, so be it. I make no apology for
being inedible.
The seventh lecture, written
fifteen years after the sixth, is a coda of sorts.
It lacks both passion and pretense. A "Take it or
leave it. That's the way it is..." sort of thing.
Obviously, what was found necessary to say had been
said: Reality is a creative
process.
Robert
Cremean
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