“Angels (they say)…


…don’t know whether it is the living
They are moving among, or the dead.”
(Rainier Maria Rilke)

I don’t know where this image came from, other than, from just another sketch in my notebooks which in turn is from a word description of the image which flowed from the random, yet repetitive reflections that form the bulk of my journaling. I could go back there and find the page, but I’d not be able to read my writing so why bother?

I guess it’s about anthropomorphizing inspiration as more a trio of Socratic inner guides than a chimera of the ever-so-Manichean Christian myth-creatures angels and demons; a drawing about the how of the drawing.

Daimonion (front, center) is the victim, does that make art the crime? OK, I’m a modernist, and I believe on one hand that art must be creative, add something to the world which is the opposite of the criminal, which is generally defined as taking something. But on the other hand art is personal, which is criminal, too, as it violates the social norm.

Daimonion (left) is the first responder checking for signs of life, Art, here, is a Sartrean gaze with an object “dead” center, preventing as much as promoting the return of the gaze. She in seeking a pulse is feeling for a vein, the gaze returned. Daimonion (right) is he the detective or the journalist? “Just the facts, ma’m,” either way.

 “Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware
that we are not really at home in our interpreted world.”
(Rilke, again)