The Cepia Club Blog

The Cepia Club Blog: The Cepia Club believes individual awareness and activism can lead to a peaceful and prosperous world. This blog contains the pertinent literature, both creative and non-fiction, produced by the Cepiaclub Director and its associates.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Sub Terra Vita: DRAWATHON! From the Wellspring of Art—“Wannigan Days,” July 16, 2010

Sub Terra Vita
By Scipio Cepiacanus
August 14, 2010

From the Wellspring of Art—“Wannigan Days,” July 16, 2010

We sit on steps and chairs under a canopy on a raised concrete stage. At the back alley on Aquaria's main street, a lengthy narrow paved walk filled with umbrella-ed tables and chairs, the music--“too much modern blues”--blared on the sat-radio speakers posted high on the ICO's red m brick side to the north. On the south wall of the alley, loomed another stately oven-brick building, housing “The Safety Film.” In this cavern of the alley, a warm night's breeze of dry storm clouds made it very damp. But, lights kept our view illuminated. The dwindling four art groupies inevitably diminished to just me. By myself, I watched the 1 Am to 5 Am shift of the “Drawathon.” Bobzie and Kyrley, each masters of their own oil pastel forms, entirely different in their view, though no less expert at their sensitive drawn touch, amazed my own audience of one.

The Drawathon goes on, near sixteen hours done, almost, not quite eight to follow, to 12 noon. “Warned Again Dayz” starts for the rest of yesterday's tomorrow. Bobzie and Kyrley's started early. Earlier in the evening, my “Dayz” started by listening The Just-One-More playing his Urine show the next block over, in the back of the Side Bar on their hillside amphitheater of amplitude concrete. That now happened nine hours ago, today's yesterday even though the night prevails instead of dawn. I lived another day this night, stretching out the insomnia before into what I feel now: Living as the invisible and omniscient chronicler of this Drawathon. I feel like the Third Man in second person format, but wish to stay quiet and engage only in the general bonhomie of my friends when they break from their art.

The snack tray of butter crackers, Pepperjack and Colby cheese, hard salami and pepperoni dwindles as I munch. Bobzie and Kyrley snack on the platter as well when they step back from the narrow view of their two separate walls to get the panoramic and an artist huddle.

Kyrley returns to his parchment and scrubs away pink and orange parallelisms in order to use the back with anther piece as transparent overlay. He rotates the waxy sheet for a different perspective. As we all know, or should at some mature or clearer state in life, most things of beauty and truth depend on perspective, while lies and wickedness stand on their own for what they are: unwholesome and unlikable. But in this domain of a semi-underground set between two brick canyons, the art and the artist in their two forms before me bring nothing but positive honesty to picture poems. Both my friends, Bobzie and Kryley, have shown me for 11 and three years, respectively, that they can indeed create a thousand phrases into one notable vision. I cannot fail to hope and wonder if ever a writer could capture a thousand pictures in one solitary word.

Bobzie found that after finishing on waveless waxpaper, the new piece, no longer destined for scrap tin sheets, must revert to paper. Now, two rectangular blank white eyes stare at him from what he just drew. He stares into their void and their abyss stares back at him. No longer able to resist the pictured eyes' pouting shouts of, “WE WANT SOMETHING TO DEFINE US!!” he draws into the eyes and emerges with victorious strokes of oil pastel emotion n all around them. He has drawn into his form to be remembered and not described at this point. Not described? Why? I would never want to lessen their impact on the world upon which they yearned with undignified words. Let the audience imagine: It is their image in mirror.

Kyrley goes “aggressive” with black outlines on the flipped and rotated waxen pelt. I see, with near opaque colors doing piano forte from its backside, the former of pink and orange parallelisms. The picture on “pic-true” livens into a cross-legged, gun-totting Sky-Tek samuri, complete with horned helmet and turtle-layered armor. The warrior of art, alert, yet reposed, has his own Apocalypse black air tube popping from the vanilla orange hexa-form headdress. One hand-less arm has fitted in place of fingers a spike driven into the ground to hold the form, and perhaps all of us, to the earth and realityin the weightless time and space of the future. Kyrley then wipes the pastel from the material and starts anew. It is better this way. I just humbly revel in the privilege of seeing it, and no one else besides the three of us ever will.

Back to Bobzie's fulfilling eyeful mirror. . . . He spins to do a karate chop sketch mark on the surface on the right eye. From a nun's habit, he makes Mr. Pear-head, smiling his ivory key teeth. The finishing form, which I can now only demean with words, looks to me like sponge-cake brains popped out of the head like a misfit toy male doll smoking cigarettes on a lazy Christmas night, undelivered, but having one hell of time with scotch and women besides.

Four-fifty-six am, less 24 minutes since the last good song on the satellite radio bouncing off the canyon's red brick walls. Seven hours to go. . Still, the music is not so important. Jovial fun and positive grooves, even searching themes for me, make us fellows in a quest, but Bobzie and Kyrley share their own adventure, and soon I must leave here for them to discover what they hope to observe.;

Five-twenty-eight am. Finally, the morning drive starts on the radio. My favorite The Who song, “Eminence Front,” from the album It's Hard, sudden and sure, woke up us frustrated with what music has become since the end of the 20th Century. The two artists, Bobzie and Kryrley, inspire on a jive, juiced rhythm, and now it is going fast for them still 12 noon on their Rock'n'Draw. I am about to leave, get a little rest, and come back up here to Acquaria later this Friday morning, to “Warn Again” all who pass: Be the poet of your talent; it makes life happier. For the picture poets, Bobzie and Kyrley, I leave them to draw upon their art, the wellspring of their life.


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