We work to petrify moments in time…
Capture an emotion
Allow others to process it through their senses
So that we, the artists may relive a moment in our lives…
Through you…
Strangers…
In our universe there is no need for prayer
For we are the designers, the blind watch makers
Perfecting our cogs, gears and mechanisms to enable strangers…
To speak of time
A time where seconds felt like minutes
Where divinity is felt through creativity
And where lenses and syllables produce metaphorical
Incandescent power
To illuminate epiphany
To incense intellection
To inspire…
We may not share common ancestry, vernacular, cuisine
But we all have a blood type
One that feverishly courses through our veins and tissue
Seeking a point of respiration
We course through our lives on a similar journey
But often with nearsighted ambition
Myopic goals; with timelines the distance of sitcoms
Suffocated beneath a smog of talking heads,
Incessant communication and misanthropic opinions
Immersed in sentiments of sediment; foundationless silt
With no point of respiration
So we implore you… Seek solace in artists…
May these works be with you.
(And also with you.)
We Lift up our arts.
(We lift them as we are Lords.)
Let us give thanks to the Lords of Art.
(It is right to give them thanks and praise.)
To the men and women that spin cultures counter-clockwise
Piercing the monotony of cellophane wrapped mundanity
Where carpenters saw and sand new periodic tables of emotion
Where no element is inert, only reactive
Where artists place their vulnerabilities on a crucifix…
For you…
To either lodge a spear into or to worship
