Life Itself

The abstract is meaningless to me save as a fragment of the whole, which is life itself. I can only see line as a human gesture, a gesture that has no value apart from what it signifies. It is the ultimate which concerns me, and all physical, all material things are but an expression of it.

I read this in Rockwell Kent’s book, Wilderness, and it struck me like a light in the wilderness. For a year now, I’ve been playing with the abstract. I admit there is an attraction there to me. But only to a certain extent. Ultimately it’s not basically concerned with the ultimate. And often leads to all kinds of abstraction, like some endless game. Things often tend to the artificial in that world. Life itself is left in the margins. I think it’s why I like a poet like Creeley. His lines may be abstract, but his poems are filled with life itself.