Boyd Scheer- Hall of Mirrors

~ I N T O   t h e   H U M A N   R I V E R ~

The Seductress will not be denied  

I’m not much of a salesman. Self promotion is not my strong suit. On the contrary, I seem to have a perverse talent, a compulsion even, for making things unnecessarily difficult. As a ‘businessman’ (painting contractor) the friction killed me, torn within myself by an irresistible seductress. But there were people depending on me and that was just that. As a consequence I’ve lived the bulk of my life at odds with the most Essential inclination. That will kill anybody! It killed me. Hell, it’s killing the Planet! On the other hand, something priceless was forged in that ‘athanor’, revealed as the dross burned away. Every stick has two ends, etc.

From childhood I’ve been irresistibly drawn to paint and color. Upon dying and being ‘put back’ everything ‘other’ just peeled away in layers- like an onion- until now all I do, if I do anything at all, is dive into an unplumbable sea in contemplation of contemplation itself. Paintings arise (along with absolutely everything) from ‘the place that is no place’, mere suggestions. Contemplative objects, being gestures, come to light unbound by time, pulsing with the promise, present in every heartbeat, every brushstroke, every breath… of Life itself.

Such are these, my ‘golden years’.

‘Something’ valuable accumulates all around me. And I don’t mean ‘money’ valuable. Flowing throughout is a gift which is not ‘mine’ nor even for me. Arising as such the work itself aches for release into the Human River. Whether to sink or swim is not for me to say. The work itself dictates form. It bears a responsibility I am utterly powerless to fulfill which has bought me a permanent seat here, belly to the bar, in the tavern of ruin. 

I wonder, will there ever be resources with which to secure a venue or promote an exhibition? I don’t know. There’s no time to jump through a lot of absurd ‘art world’ hoops where money is ‘god’. I ain’t no spring chicken, after all. The Grim Reaper is my constant companion. With death as a droning background whisper life becomes so much sweeter, so much more precious.

Perhaps I won’t  live to see this work shared. But as long as there is breath in me I must hold fast to the conviction that there is a way for this work to enter the Human River, even if I never see it. God Willing, it will resonate. Maybe that resonance will vivify the exquisite agony of yearning. Perhaps the resonance of yearning will open the door into this Hall of Mirrors and draw at least one heart into… the depths of an unplumbable sea in the arms of a Seductress Who tolerates no other… and will not be denied…

Or maybe all this work will just end up in the dump mouldering along with my lifeless corpse, the desiderata of futility. Who knows? Does it matter?

‘Barkeep! Over here! Another round of destitution for the house! Put it on my tab! I’ll never be able to pay it anyway…’

Boyd Scheer 

S p o n t a n e i t y

( a c r y l i c   o n   p a n e l s )