Intentionality. Must I mean for it to be art to then be art? 

Or someone sell it – someone buy it? Must it be made in a certain length of time? Today I carve, I paint, I fabricate. Is he wrong when he says, “All I know is that I know art when I see it?”

What does the eagle know of such sensibilities as she drifts from one thermal uplift to another? Slowly. Eyes upon the rat upon the ledge.

Must I feel epiphany or the sublime? Must I reject the fanciful in favor of the torment?

Can art be a thing of tiers layered down over eons by the sandy drift of tide, and worn away by heave and wind, and even on occasion by a celebratory rain? Or a dirty home over-filled with refuse and disease or a slightly miscalculated construction whose architect was neither God or Saarinen?

Was it art when the last inhabitants left for a more southern clime or wetter or their shaman whispered in the night, “Move on.”?

Are we only allowed to pronounce this long crevice carved by time-in-hand artistic if when the last member of a brown-skinned tribe of wandering farmers (who didn’t know that they were artists) lifted his foot off the last rung on the ladder, turned and looked out over the bone dry land, at the front-edges of the cliffs below. Stood at a spot on the mesa where his newly abandoned home was no longer visible in the least. Stood and whispered some equivalent of, “Our show is done. Our crafting now complete. Please enjoy this masterpiece!


Fire House Ruins
 photographed by Josef Muench in 1968