conclave  |  paradise lost series

                                                            Spirits when they please
                                     Can either sex assume, or both; so soft
                                   And uncompounded is their essence pure,
                                        Not tied or manacl'd with joint or limb,
                               Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,
                   Like cumbrous flesh; but in what shape they choose
                                      Dilated or condens't, bright or obscure,
                                               To execute their aerie purposes,
                                            And works of love or enmity fulfill.
                                                         John Milton, Paradise Lost  i:423


                                                                              listening to:
                                Giulio Caccini, Paul Pritchard, ave maria 

For a while now, images and text from Milton's classic have
consistently found their way into my life, evidencing both sub-
consciously and consciously in art and writing. I've no idea why
...I only know the images are strong, persistent, compelling,
demanding they be given form.
   Once again, bowing to my quirky and often unpredictable
muse, I've begun developing this series of images in earnest...
a personal interpretation, perhaps a quest to reclaim what was
lost. And in that endeavor, I'm reminded that it's the journey,
not the destination, wherein lies the reward.

                                                                                         umbra nihili

                
                             Change is the constant, the signal for rebirth,
                                                            the egg of the phoenix.
                                                                              Christina Baldwin

                                                                              listening to:
                                                                                     Aeone,
                                                    Umbra Nihili (without shadow) 

                                                                                                  dusk

                
                                   In the midst of winter, I found there was,
                                               within me, an invincible summer.
                                                                                  Albert Camus

                                                                               listening to:
                                                                      Angels of Venice,
                                                                                 Persentio 

The advent of the new year has always been one of the most important
holidays for me. In my youth, it was a time of re-assessment and renewal;
a time to look forward with eager anticipation; to dream about what might
lie waiting just around the corner. The future held so much promise...
anything was possible.
   But with adulthood came sorrow, each new year bringing new, mixed
with the lingering pain of old. And the worst always seemed to arrive with
the holiday season. This year has proved no exception. And yet...
scattered among the sadness were moments of genuine joy, moments
of true discovery and delight, and something more.
   Today, a small miracle happened...I discoverd that sweet sense of hope
rising to the surface once again...tentative, yes, but there, and oh so
welcomed. The coming year may hold new grief; it likely will. But perhaps
it will also bring great joy, enough to carry me through to the end and
beyond.
   Hope. It's a beautiful thing.