Coincidence

A coincidence is an accidental connection without recognizable cause, an alignment of events defeating the odds of rational explanation, an uncanny occurrence that can be either laughed at or taken seriously in a superstitious sort of way.

The uncanny sensation of a coincidental occurrence seems to depend on a relative scale of timeliness. The uncanny succession of events, strangely connected in the perception of an analytical mind, inherently shares a relation to time.

It is a simple math equation. Arithmetic + Banality = Coincidence.

Or as simple and fleeing as two intersecting rays of light.

Statistics say they are inevitable. They are everyman's experience.

A universal and timeless phenomena, such as a solar eclipse, once revealed monumental religious weight on a massive scale, can now be limited to a google search or ignored all together

Thus, the implication of coincidence reflects culture. It stimulates personal reflection, analysis; it is in fact, a conceptual art.

Nothing is proven but something spooky looms, the aura of inevitability, something perhaps symbolic, as if reminding you of a forgotten dream. You are surprised, caught off guard, yet intuitively sense something is "meant to be".

It is an abstract relationship of pseudo scientific elements, maintaining its precarious position between physics and philosophy.

Suicidal genius Paul Kammerer obsessed about his Das Gesetz der Serie, or The Law of the Series, which Albert Einstein admitted was "interesting, and by no means absurd." Einstein, who described his own thought experiments leading to his theories of relativity as fishing for preexisting design, plucking universal truths from the cosmos.

Inspired by classical music, Einstein recognized the parallels between composing symphonies and divining his theories of relativity.

Isaac Newton, similarly inspired, said, "The universe is a cryptogram set by the Almighty," while Pascal conceived his Paradox of Probability Theory expressly for the benefit of a friend's gambling prospects.

What does it all mean? It is a provocation, the unanswerable question, the observable unknown, a glitch in the facade of reality, a peek at the infinite behind the everyday, a splice of life.

Perspectives on Locality

A postcard is sent between friends who have been pinpointed at opposite ends of a major storm cloud formation crossing the east coast, stretching from New York to Washington DC, thus mapping the geographic locality of a moment in time on paper, without necessarily drawing a traditional map with the lines of the New Jersey Turnpike, I-95, Philadelphia, the coastline, rivers, the Delaware Bridge, the Chesapeake Bay...

Ocean debris is transported by well documented water currents spanning thousands of miles of Atlantic coastline, floating individually at various depths from the outset, congregating eventually at the breakwater's edge for whatever reason and beached amongst a scattered community of geologic diversity, displayed on the golden white surface of perfectly smoothed sand in the form of an arching swash mark, left by the last receding line of foam from the furthest reaching wave in a periodic high tide, marked clearly on a time/depth chart, the hours written daily on a chalk board and posted for whom it may concern. The bits of plastic, chunks of foam, synthetic debris of unknown origin, their bright colors mixed with bits of seaweed and shellfish, smooth stones and pebbles, white and brown, their earth tones splayed across pristine sand seeming to illustrate visually the essence of controlled arbitrariness otherwise known as coincidence or fate.

A second-hand thrift store becomes a period room localizing the fashions of a certain nostalgic narrative. A white elephant sale placed arbitrarily in the garage space between two seven-story apartment buildings, home to hundreds, if not thousands of occupants, total strangers, who nevertheless share a time/space locality of life experience connected to the cast off objects making up a momentary weekend installation of their life's detritus. Life is reordering a flashback in narrative form. Timeless narratives reoccur consistently based on the localities of a particular passing observation. What we observe is tangential to any number of internal and external dialogues and does not entirely have to do with our eyes. Many things can be recorded through our vision while we are not observing the physical world at all. These are instances where the glitch in the visual world can allow us to observe the infinite flatness of our mind's eye; infinite in imagination and resource, flat in every capacity to render narrative connections three dimensionally. Somewhere, everywhere, you've seen this all before. The answer is how.

Imitation

You know I likened you-

would you like to listen?

-to a polisher of mirrors

or rather, an innocent toddler

adopted into such a station.

but you've since been a great runner of fields,

climber of man-made constructions,

a city girl.

I saw you just the other day

so the song goes - my you have grown!

you sang of a desert campfire unknown

and spoke ill of narcicism, that it bored you-

but you bore easily of course

and never so badly as to tears

you're far too pragmatic to show such weakness

lethal as a samurai

Like Hokusai peddling buddhist wares

to tourists in Edo

you've changed names and passions

with all the passing fashions

but would you apologize for dressing out of season?

Is there any explanation really for our behavior?

You call me an idealist

but I'm a spy under covers

I'm rotten to the core

I'll eat two apples on the road

for every Big Apple at home

doctors orders, but still I'm sick to my stomach

with pie a la mode

and too many paintings to show

like Balanchine said, "One day without realizing it,

your imitation has become your own voice."

Faith in Art

Questioning Idealisms, the faith in art and icons - a portrait of Che Guevara

on his deathbed wheezing his last

asthmatic breaths highlighted against

a chiaroscuro screen

his failure in the rigid face

of an inflated ego,

made-up and mirrored idealism

an attitude akin to the artist, no doubt. Let's face it:

No one is transcending the physical world

with material objects on a gallery wall.

Abstract painting is a cul de sac.

Cynical

Cynicism is the fear of doing.

Dream, don't be cynical or sorry,

Just Be. Meditate. Namaste.

But they say

Image is everything. Reinvent yourself.

Perception is reality. 40 is the new 30.

What's my image?

I'm a white boy red neck devil, that's what

white trash with pasty white thighs

(see: the importance of a good tan)

(see also: white man can't jump)

white pants + white shirt = white bag

some gold chains and a hairy chest

could be old money in the mattress

or just poor behind closed doors

another private sector secret,

unspoken lies behind

old world immigration,

call it retro-racism

The Future is Now

black pants + black shirt = good tips!

Brown is the new black

Mexican is the new nigger

A black American Flag

falls over us, the stripes running down your legs

your head in the stars

Neglected

Neglected, brought directly from the estate of Hilda Preibisius,

an artist friend with all the unnumbered woodblock prints

stuck for god-knows-how-long in her mother's attic

filtering its way through the cobwebs and dust jackets

into the arms of a cozy frame, hung on the wall

of a clean and well lighted room

in modern society

and how!

a stranger's delight

like the fanfare of Sylvester and Giacommetti

Pinky Ryder or Blinky Palermo

A debatable debauchery

an heroic discussion of ugly unsociables

the pitch of grand provenance by some good salesman

a cow prod at auction,

herd mentality

Criticism

Schjeldahl gives Hickey's theories

an Abbot and Costello ring

It's either narrative or decoration

who's to say which is more contemporary?

Hiss! I hate that word: contemporary.

A bitter old sot's sarcastic, pessimist plot

about beauty and gardening or wine

or bumper pool,

for that matter-

they've got their aesthetics too,

their little happy moments,

when the stare comes back to you

from deeper space, head on, smiles and the

search for eye contact ensues...

they put themselves out there

like a hang glider jumping off a cliff

over the unforgiving sea.

You're just being critical.