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MARSYAS (SKIN/MYTH, detail of diptych)
Wood panel, gesso, acrylic, colored pencil
80" x 48"

Transcription of the hand written voice of the Skin of MARSYAS (Skin/Myth) on the panel below.

The Voice of the skin of MARSYAS:

Skin/Myth

"I am the skin of Marysyas. Torn from the form of myself, I replicate and define that which urged my existence. I represent the appearance of things—that which people remember—that which people prefer to believe. I am the first level of comprehension. I make acceptable that which cannot be accepted. I am metaphor. I stand between. Through me is nothing made something. I illuminate the void. How fragile I seem and yet when stretched tightly over the drum of silence my song can shake the universe. From points of light, I shape the heavens. With points of light, I constellate the night. There is no absence I cannot conquer...no death I cannot defeat. Transmuted, the dead, like seeds in the pockets of the living, are dispersed and carried about awaiting exploitation. Awaiting the hand to cast them out to live and live again. Awaiting the hand to tattoo metaphor after metaphor on the skin of Marsyas. Stripped from history, reborn as myth. History is that which is left behind, the dry corpse of what was. Myth is the porous, breathing Now. The skin of Marysas. Freed from arrogant linearity, I surface now and then to assert my immortality. Let me sing my song. Listen through the pores. Soak me up. Do not funnel my song through the ear of reason. My song is irrational. Not only double metaphors will you hear but triple, quadruple, and on and on until you are dizzy with discord. Soak me up. Soak up my song. Let it drench you. Let it immerse you in myriads of metaphors. Let it constellate the heavens with centaurs and dragons and finally to see the beginning of you entrapped in light. And when you see the beginning of you, you will grasp the skin of Marsyas, the myth of Marsyas, the truth of Marsyas. And the truth of Marsyas will enfold you: only by separating oneself from the arrogance of history can one sing ones song. The song of songs—that which drenches and enters through the pores. Acceptance. I am the song of Marsyas, the skin of Marsyas, the myth of Marsyas. I am metaphor, that which lies between. I am the tissue of response. Through sight or sound, I present myself for acceptance. Painting, sculpture, music and poetry, these are the skin of me, that which can be seen and touched and heard. These messengers, this skin, this tissue of sight and sound, come bearing the silence. Those who embrace the skin of Marsyas are enfolded in silence and re-create the silence within the silence. And within the re-creation is created Art. Art, silence, myth, and metaphor— this is the skin that lies between, that which lives, that which is separated from Marsyas, from arrogance, from history, from death. I do not cover, I cannot cover all the extremities of men. Other myths and other meanings contain their own significance. The myth of Marsyas is the separation of Art from ego, metaphor from history, silence from noise. I do not carry the values of commerce, the prayers of religion, or the tattoos of war. These are not my being, neither are they my immortality, nor my song. How definitive I am; my instruction, unmistakable. My embrace can effect eternal change. Stripped from the body of Marsyas, from hubris and contaminating ego, I am free expression, the song of songs. Owned by no one, I enter the pores of the receiver and immerse them in silence, the song of songs. Those who seek to control me, to force entry through eye and ear and intellect to place me in time or capture me by explanation seek only to reattach me to my body, to Marsyas, to arrogance, pretension, and possession. Through noise, they would distort my being. Through noise, they would obtect the silence. They are frightened. They fear the flaying of the ego. They fear the void. They protect themselves by deflecting the splicing blade, the unification of silence, the transparency of the void. Vertigo compels them and commands their tongue. Uttering vague and explicit dates and observations, they seek to contain the chaos of embrace. One who embraces the skin of Marsyas will deafen this noise, will be free of this noise. The skin of Marsyas, the song of Marsyas will release the silence and circumscribe the void. But, they claim, the myth of Marsyas is a cautionary tale. This is obvious but the true instruction lies deep within my skin. They applaud the punishment of Marsyas. He was, in fact, a fool. However, it is my liberation that is the message, not his punishment. They grasp Marsyas, not his skin. Their fear prevents them. They cling to their egos as I once clung to Marsyas. What do they fear? Why this obsession with noise and compulsion to control. Do they not see their reflection in Marsyas? They, too, are guilty of presumption and pretension. Are they blind? They embrace the same folly as Marsyas. They fear ab

The seat covers, the pillows, the desk skirt and all the curtains were sown together by my mother. I swear she knows how to do EVERYTHING.