Poïesis is derived from the ancient term which means “to make”.
First I decided to attempt art for the Sketch Book Project. In (re)making the book it sent out, albeit a 16 page one, I made space for further creativity. Yes, there was commentary, yes there are sketches and doodles over water colours, and collages and colouring in, but the combination demanded more.
This word…was first a verb, an action that transforms and continues the world.
The first task was to cover the blank space, or rather, to transform its small white pages into its own world, which is also a result of and a continuation of a version of my world. The acts required for this included the purchase of second-hand books, the collection of water-colour pencils and my Zentangle supplies, the selection of blank pages from old books and sketch books, and the selection of printed pages and my own water colours. It was both deliberate and random.
Neither technical production nor creation in the romantic sense, poïetic work reconciles thought with matter and time and person with the world.
This process meant poetry was delivered as a way of reconciling myself with the task of illustrating a page with the time and abilities and supplies available to me. It wasn’t intended. What happened was the act of being creative by arranging colour and paper on the page opened the door to be creative in another way through words. I should have remembered this: it’s why I have a tumblr account and take photos. Perhaps, it was due to fear of the blank page, or trepidation about trying to draw, but poetry happened and I can’t take it back now.
I’m not saying I’m making great art, as the execution is rough and there are many flaws. Neither do I claim the same for poetry, although I think the poetry is some of the better stuff I’ve done of late. The point is I’m happy to have achieved something, even if it’s a very small thing. And anyway, too late now. but for a final once over, it’s complete.
In the end, any of my concerns or thoughts about worth or quality, such as whether the art or poetry therein contained by my little project are any ‘good,’ are unhelpful.
Good is not the point. Others will judge. I will do.