Thursday, January 24, 2008
I have a small piece of Josef Frank wallpaper, Paradise, in black, that I brought back from Sweden two years ago. It is my prize. Josef Frank is a giant. The piece has been pinned to my wall since then. I always meant to weave something using the colors, but never did. Or, thought I never did. Here is pillow I wove, and moving it aside to make room for something else on the work table, it landed just below the paper scrap. Just then I saw what I had done. But I clearly remember that I thought I was making it up as I wove it.
If I close my eyes, I cannot tell you what colors I am wearing today. I can't remember what color car my neighbor drives. I've dreaded that someday I'll be called as an eye witness to a crime committed. Beard? Conjoined twins? Maybe.....
A skeptic about how we can unconsciously borrow from another artist's work, I saw that I had taken every color. True, I had planned to use the colors, someday, but was unaware at the time
I made it, that I was doing it. Art is ideas, colors, textures, forms, and thoughts, streaming into other forms. We all borrow ideas from everywhere, even from ourselves. It is impossible to distinguish exactly where one idea ends and a new one starts.
It is fruitless to try to go against this grain of creativity running through all creation. Minds are meant to commingle, ideas coalesce. It's called imagination, and it rules.