Letter To Anthony J. Thomas….
who did you design this order for, was it designed for anyone to understand. When I began using the paintbrush and these colors as my therapy, I asked my own personal inhibitions, what could be the only thing, that would destroy this from being sacred. Since I found me, I lost, others, I have lost a sense of urgency, gained an immense amount of survival anxiety and pushed myself to the point of critical breakdown. Above all else, I create, to have this cycle propelled into action continuously until the day of demise. The pleasurable theory of why I even, induce considerable amounts of offspring, to this environment is full of pessimism, what I cannot submit or commit my psyche to and elements I despise, because I find no, spiritual success in indulging in such trials. Initially, I missed my father, constructed acres of visual landscaping for the objective of surveying a better life from this point on, a better manhood. I channeled my perspective as an African-American child, in the jungle of men, prejudice to pre-disposition and accepting towards realism. So now I rest at a point, where I feel, obliged to using the innate, naturalistic, encouragement of self that I have developed through the composition of my catalogue and bringing such inhibitions that trapped and soiled my “new” being to the forefront of primal investigation, leading me to a spacial realm that I have never visited, but will invite many to purvey before I consider such environment an imperative state of my artistic growth. The matter remains, locked in the trenches of guilt, remorseful thinking, trial and error with a pretentious desire to, present the new ideas, new concepts in the best way known, or yet unknown to my being. The catalogue of the artist is the spiritual, tattered, beaten, intellectual body, metaphysically existing in a realm, reserved for interest and creator. If I have learned anything thus far, it must have been lost, in the yearning to know more of what I lost, when I began to share my children with you. The meager, idea of producing visual, fantasy for the realistic means of competition, the systemic model of museum/gallery formation, is something that has listlessly hung above my turn in moving my ideas into, optical preservation and cerebral permanence. “why won’t they accept me” against, “why I won’t ever allow them to” seems to be the fruitful domestic dispute, my children must watch. But the more we learn, the increase in ignorance towards anything other than the aspirational dreams of the task. I have learned, wings never grow, under oath, or wraps, always outwardly, ambitious in size and mystical in presence.