| there is a place where art laughs and plays on a playground of freedom. a place that is softer than a meadow, and cleaner than a crisp brook, the art is healthy and virile here. there are no tomorrows or yesterdays, the art does not fret or scheme. there is only today; the first and last day of art's eternal journey. paintings do not hang on walls and sculptures rest their feet. songs dance with poems and photos chastise apparel. nature is unnaturally removed and there are no exhibits to inhibit movement. this place is a home to everyone, without prisoners of architecture. the art is living in a self-directed consequence of space, rewriting histories in a thousand futures. mortar and brick dissolve into flicker and click. |
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