And a great shadow. These conglomerates continue to amuse and amaze. Nature makes great collages. Kelp growing on rock, clinging to rock, draping over rock.
It took me five minutes to retrieve the word “collage.” This is distressing. I’ve used the word hundreds of times, if not thousands. I’ve taken classes in collage. My art is all about collage! Actually, I am more than distressed. I am sad and afraid. This wasn’t what I was going to write about tonight, but this problem has highjacked my intentions. How can my mind be so fragile? What connections are broken? What paths have been erased? I had to go to an art dictionary to find the word. All I could come up with was “combine.”
We are all so dependent on words. Although I am a visual artist, my interior life is conducted verbally. No, ALL my life is conducted verbally. I am my words. My words are part of my art almost always. I cannot imagine being locked up in a wordless world. Language makes us human.
I hate losing my articulateness. So there.
It happens. I’ve lost my glasses on my eyes a few times. But I also feel your concern. Words are all I have, in the end. Take those away, and there goes my third dimension. But you wrote this beautifully, and you recaptured “collage.” That’s not something, that’s two somethings, both good.
Avery famous collage artist called all his collages “combines”.
I would tell you his name, but I can’t remember!
Robert Rausheberg! I saw an exhibit of his work in LA several years ago.
Yes! I know of Rauschenberg’s combines; I think that was why I came up with “combine” before I could come up with “collage,” which is really silly because “collage” is so much more common! How lovely that you got to see his work. I’ve seen a few things and am trying to remember whether I saw the bed in person or have just seen so many photos of it that it *seems* I’ve seen it!