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The writer exhales and has something to say. The artist inhales and is consumed by a different vision.
I am not confident that is right except I do know we see different. Having tried writing as long as I’ve tried being an artist I understand a little of the dissimilarities. Mostly, it is having words to say or no words to say.
One of our great Canadian artists died last week, Alex Colville. We went to his retrospective in Montreal years ago and were pleased to hear him speak about his work in his home town, Wolfville, Nova Scotia before that.
But, even before that, we saw his drawings/sketches/watercolours as an artist documenting the 2nd World War. He was one of the first to enter the aftermath that was Belsen, what horrors he depicted.
Has no one taken into consideration how his work, like so many of his generation disintegrates with that experience? That his work was full of pathos, a feeling of termination, a lack of emotion? Would you expect different?
My partner lived most of that war in London, England as a young boy. He has terrible memories of those news reels from those atrocities. He watched the fires burn the docks, he watched the doodle bugs level blocks of housing, lived nights in the underground stations, collected shrapnel.
But never did the language devolve into the drivel of today.
I’ll never get over that term colleraterial damage – which is some type of military misdirect meaning we killed innocent people but not on purpose.

Found Sculpture as a Postcard

Found Sculpture as a Postcard

About geri binks


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