Excerpt from Rilke' s The Book of Hours

So arbitrarily we may not paint you,

you who are dawn, from whom the morning rose.

We fetch our colors out of the ancient trays,

the same brush-stokes, and the very rays

with which the saint surrounded you and stilled you.

Images we build in their thousands, 

and set them up in dense walls round you.

Our hands veil you in devotion, lest

you stand apparent to the heart that finds you.

We build you with our trembling hands,

towering atom on atom.

Where we're going,compositionally, the situation where there's not up nor down, no left  nor right, it's where we're headed. Whether it's into space or it's into cyberspace, we don't have that sense of gravity anymore...


-James Turrell

new moving image works in formation

By the sea one morning 


I sang out my many names