Wriggles and swirls mingle as a web of rhythmic accents in yellow, orange and aluminium. They build momentum in waves of harmonious crescendos, lines of clear and crisp as though viewed under the bluest of country skies in the peak of spring light. Their direction is exact and focused with an edge of spunk, several edges in fact.
The motion that exists within Jackson Pollock’s ‘Blue Poles’ appears in life too, through the enactment of a purpose to be and do whatever inspires and feeds the soul. We bumble as determined busy bees on the waft of a blossomed breeze, sometimes skipping beside Winnie the Pooh.
Other times, that waft transforms as the weather blows in all its unpredictable force in our world of probabilities and non-exacts. Without warning, mornings breathe through a haze that slithers on the horizon and by mid-afternoon, overpowers as the ultimate desert mirage to entice under a blaze of uncertainty. What’s real and what’s not becomes ambiguous and our clarity hides and plays amongst illusions that distend as distrust.
Look hard into ‘Blue Poles’ and lines can smudge as though an eraser has smeared their lucidity in one clean swipe. Lines obscure into blotched oblivion as they cross into a tangle of disarray and sometimes dive into nothingness where they lurk in unsuspecting existence. And fester.
The first you know of these brutes is when they explode to shatter sensibilities, revealing a pungent torrent of purple and teal murk, bruised and blending in sour and sweet and setting off sparks as clashes of psychotic ramblings. Senses sear to expose the stark of the soul where emotions disrobe in full reveal; vulnerable and disconnected, suspicious and fearful. Life becomes a sparring of naked, thorned sticky.
And yet once that focus has vanished into marbled streaks of scatter and relying on one’s judgement becomes a guessing game, then what?
One of the very nice things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.
I read that nearly each time I visit my local deli. Its cursive script demands my attention as it blazes across the top of the wall behind the counter. And while I don’t go on to stop and eat at that moment, I realise that taking the time to stop is what counts, time to collect those smatterings that have been blasted to smithereens, to understand what’s been and to help define what’s next. It’s time to reflect.
Life would be boring and unchallenging if re-aligning ourselves was as simple as resharpening our eyes on the lines within ‘Blue Poles’ to see them in their finest.