Art in four bowls
by Christos Polydorou
It was a place to have begun.
(I am using the past participle
form the verb to the best of my
knowledge to reveal something
occurring without knowledge of
the subject, for example, Shakespeare
is a language that is taught in which
case who teaches it is not given.)
To state it has a geographical location would be untrue.
(ie, it is not a place you can find
on a map, and you will only
know you have been somewhere
else when you find yourself
back at the point A where you
started, with a clear sense of B,
although you have not moved.)
Where your spirit longs to be.
(Earlier, I suggested losing yourself
in art, and I understand this is
uberfluous, and I had no designs
to be some sort of devil’s advocate
or worst, an evil avocado. And it is
not about the artist, is it? It is about
the work of art: a work of art that
bathes you inside and out, that
returns you to the world brand new,
like a baby.)
What are mornings actually for?
(In the morning the heart feels so empty.
When you went to bed last night It was so full.
So full of glory and joy and music.
Is it your heart that is empty?
Or just your stomach?)
Always a bit more than what was expected; what keeps art alive.