The Three Artistic Tenant Triangle:

In art, an artist and any concrete attempt to measure their skill can rest on basically three concepts: Creativity, Technique, and Composition.


Creativity: This is the element that scares most people away.  However, it tends to be the glimmer of hope that keeps even the most fledgling artist persevering through the hate. For if people saw they could hold fire and shape it to their will, they would be entranced, at least enough to continue even through the burn. They would yearn to live for and give their livers daily for such a gift.  Creativity is the skill to see life, replicate life, and imbue a representation of life into, through and from a media, telling a story and letting life be a little more. It is within creativity’s grasp, one realizes being crazy is not particularly a bad thing. For it can be the inspiration from which the mind looking forward with forethought, can hue all manner of things from the depths of their imagination to reveal beauty to the mortal lands of reality.

         So from the hidden celestial heights, close to his breast, an artist bears a hollowed reed holding an idea sparking. Hard the heart beats, for the artist runs, his purpose being pursued, haunted by a sense of the divine on his heels. For this spark, this possibility held dear, snatched from the clouds, has been occluded high, held there to limp, though epic, hidden low key. But astride mortal limbs, this idea freed, may burn, rage, incinerate all that would oppose, igniting the night with glories rising higher than pyre flaming into inferno. Such a power did not cost an arm and leg, just a liver, yet gave life such a luster worth living.

For creativity is the fire that still lights an artist’s imagination.


Technique: The objective one, the learned one, the most artificial because it can be artifaced, made and created in any heart willing to learn and put in the work, the hours to struggle and strive, to climb the mountain. For there is a mountain–yet you in your feebleness can ascend it. It will be hard but try, persevere and be. Technique is the artist’s knowledge of the media they are trying to work in–the media’s strengths and weaknesses, its limits and unique special abilities.

Here is where the jargon resides, abstract concepts congregate, and definitions categorize, trying to sterilely conceptualize life and the action of representing it, to a science known, words understood, themes analyzed, and life snapped and shot.

           See, hear the phoenix resting in ashes, never to rise again, yet we now know how it would have flapped its wings. We’ve dissected it, we know all its theory, how hypothetically it could fly, yet there it lays, technically known and totally dead.  Technique is the realm of academics, critics, haters and know it alls. But it remains a necessary utility, for a carver must know how to hold a chisel, the painter the brush, the photographer to point the lens, the tubist to understand the silence seen in noted rest,  the poet to enjamb elusive euphemisms, and digital artist to guide that mouse and ctrl-Z with speed and deftness.

So learn the techniques of media you want to use.


Composition: So how to put this–simply why modernity sucks, your toddler is not the next Picasso, and your Emperor is stark naked in the street though all the sensible adults are loving the lace, specifically how it blows in the breeze, long, fluttery and dangling. Get your mind out of the gutter and go see your priest. Notice the inlay in the confession booth–after all there is not much else to see. Observe how the patterns are intricately laid, how the pattern repeats itself rhythmically, and how there at least seems to be a sense of order.

       For anyone’s two year old can throw up over a canvas, burp and screech attention to their direction, and design a new adult fashion line using your scissors, your sharpies and your skirts, especially the really cute one, now cut one, the one that cost you some. God has blessed everybody with the skill to paint a canvas blue then mark it with a bold white line. Yes, the emperor does strut boldly and must, for a breeze threatens to blow blue his face. Composition transcends creativity for it is the question of narrative as it asks how does your choice of color, themes, and ideas tell a story. How does your work show a perspective on life, speak to the audience by the arrangement of the piece’s elements and decisions made to put together the image before the beholder’s eye. Composition ascends from the objectiveness of Technique because it lives and bares a soul, going beyond the textbook.

      Anyone can read words, memorize concepts, reflect ideas yet it is a different skill to string words into sentences, to conceive concepts beyond the parental chromosomes, and illustrate ideas concisely in a logical understandable way. You need to know when to add, when to subtract, and realize when it is just enough to lock in gold. Then you will actually command respect and not just appear to, you there buff in the wind. Go see the priest, be clothed in the composition of the creator’s care. For not one hair falls astray if He hath not deemed it to so quit throwing paint at the canvas and claiming to be inspired. Gravity and entropy paint with only one brush and it is highly synonymous to a grim reaper’s scythe.

So compose yourself, prepare, make, and be.              


Now this artistic triangle is more of a suggestion, a trove to be raided where some thoughts on life are held. So explorer esteemed, will you carry from under the grim bleakness of the mundane, this torch offered to the world beyond? For art is not just skill subtle, creativity is not craziness capriciously cute, technique is not just craft cunning as composition is not just arrangements appearing–no, art is life often held within, in the ground beneath mortal pedantry. However, it was not meant to just stay there. Such a glory essential to earth was meant to be shared, freed, displayed, explored and contemplated so people would answer more than “eh” when thinking about their existence.

    Creativity, Technique, Composition, these three tenants residing in art’s halls help. For as they commune as a triangle, they frame the artistic endeavor, structure our work with points graspable, and present an angle at which even the feeblest, faintest, finite spark of an idea can try to catch the wettest of wood, warm the coldest of hearts, and be a flame fighting, a fire inspiring, a star shining for others to perceive.  We are not all elegantly equipped equilateral nor were we meant to be. Some will stand tall on two legs while withering in width, others will awkwardly strut and jut out with rods of differing lengths, yet make all the points connect. Right, cute and obtuse we may seem–still let the haters relate and critics canter, but artists let us try, and if at first we don’t succeed, let us through all severances pursuing, bear the sparks close to our chest,

Run, learn our craft’s technical limits,

Roll, clothe our ideas in forms chosen,

Stroll, for even as earth surrenders to winter’s descent, the sun yet rises.


For brilliance however dim must not be hidden and the land must not be left to wither to weather’s whims. The sun still shines and we artists should imbue this living sphere beyond the mundaneness of “eh”    


Yet the fourth shadow concept exists and persist–the Artistic Angst:  


I Just Sip My Tea

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The trolls be strollin in

emperor clothed they unashamed

Like clouds they be rollin in wind,

thundering like lightning they came

Controversy reeks of disaster

So above like vultures, they glide

Seeking whom they can scour

Simmering, seething in snide

Coming plain, they moan moo with beef

Bulls be brazen, threading in strife stroll

Tis a field, a forum for a foe to be fought

So crying charge, consternation claim control

Words will why, souls will wither

Weather will warp, Woes will wend

For ones simple beyond and abroad

Will weigh whacked, as twits will trend

We weep for Grandma Grammar

See her grave here down below,

see english beautiful butchered,

smh tldr, tmi lmafo lol

Collateral conjectural, who dies matters not here

Cultural contextual, for what was, now lies shot

Cogency calamity, shout louder, inspire fear

Complainers maintain, spew as thou aught  


For this means SORE!



Do you hear that din descending?

Can you feel that impending hum

The trolls beat the war chant

In droves soon tweets will come

For whom, well the trolls

Thumb flexin, tweet vexin, care not

Kermit shaded, inspired in ire

Any target found will be outfought

Ready the canon

Blare loud every horn

Retcon all truth

Demise any who scorn

Bells rung, to ships all called

Correlate toward sober causation

Held hands they sort of once

So stand firm on our citation

Rumors fly, yet we bind them down

Murmurs whisper, amplify their sound

Leaked, mined, there data renown

On the hype train, let us all bound!

TLDR: there, no surprise

I must surmise rows of lines

As length denizens despise

So YOLO XD potatoes vines!


As Perfections Might Mar

Perceive the perfidy of perfection

Such a perdition it propels us through

For passion in patience, it petrifies

Poisoning any power daring to persevere


For all must be perfect

Such teas accosted if not crossed

See eyes shanked if not dotted

For all must perfected be or lost


Yet might there be another way

Less travel, less hailed, but there

Might exist another route to pursue

where sanity and glory can fare


Though perfection appears pristine

As glory glimmers as a desire succulent

See her golden yet frozen, Midas’ desire damned

As such Galatea carved flawless yet ivory, held cold


So let missed takes make us

Stronger, for not dead we still

Strive,  through all severances

Stand, stay, be made thorough

Through every facet throughout


Thus perfected in patience

Become and be, a passion sustained

Against the knight threatening

Gloved grasps to fall as mares

Attempt to rend you wrecked



Why the fridge, cold and serene

What the fish, glinting in shiny sheen

Who the—now, how does this end?

How on earth,  different from the trend


When interjecting questions persist

Who do you expect to help, assist

What appreciation did you desire

Where do you seek advice, so dire


Why do you claim to call the divine

When trying to rectify a spine

What sought celestial condemnation

Would improve the situation?


Swear, state, assert to say

Grief, yet from truth, not stray

Avoid euphemisms, evil’s eulogy at best

Vent explaining, let not expletives mar your chest

All our Prodigies are Dead

tis a field of grass

             All our prodigies are dead, such our hopes sundered are shanked. For when we were young, we hoped and wished upon a star to see such glories rise, to see us up there on platforms high, esteemed by all–loved inherently, even though we remained still young, still fertile and fervid in the light of life, not having worked hard to sweat out achievements by toil. For we could succeed  simply by the puffiness of our baby cheeks, the ardor of cute smiles, and the potential we were perceived to be. But now all our prodigies are dead. They lie struggling in spilled blood in a back alley somewhere, deserted by us and life itself. For we are not young anymore, our curly locks will not sway any mind to our wills, nor our cute affectations help others to see our side, and our smiles sag with a wary weight that has lost any and all innocence. For our prodigies are dead and now we adult are the only thing that remains in this bloody metamorphose.


            No longer can we be the cuddly cute caterpillar dancing daintily along the leaves many, taking a nibble here and there, as we traverse life in wibble wobble manner. Freed from the cocoon cramping, it is time to spread them and see if they work. You can’t just wish it into existence but you must try to flap, exercise the powers given to you. This you were meant to be, many saw a potential in you, many prayers were said, many words were said in hope, but now simply, action must be taken. For our chance to be prodigy is long past, the cocoon is open, your wings are there, will you fly? But, but there are so many obstacles, see the winds blow hard long and against any form of forward progress. Why can’t I just walk these familiar branches, nibble these routine leaves, why can’t I just continuously caterpillar, cute and cuddly, adored wobbly and wibbly, wondrously wandering, fat on fun,  and stay here in these woods with warmth welcoming, these bed of roses comforting?

            Well, perching where toads sit, will not help you see lands of wonder. Step out of the smoke immersing you–to fly high you must change. In this, there is no room for mush, nor small nibbles on either side. Know, it’s-a not you, foo. Father William was bold, so in age came a sage to be, bearing the elden crown of gray unfrayed. Though you may have been known as the golden boy, greatness prophesied to muse with you, you must now run fast and true, for none will just give you laurels for just existing. So you so you must go out there craft your own crown, whether that be of daisies, laurels, or thorns.

                You are not a child, a prodigy of potential glory nor an old person, aged sage wisdom from a life long lived, scars deep ragged but healed. No–the scars are fresh, the wounds still bleed–yet you are not dead, nor a wraith writhing in its death throes, no–flesh, blood, and mind still exist wholly in unity  so stand firm against the encroaching fright , engage the foes with meticulous might, enrage and enlighten them all. Let them all know Lazarus livid is not lazy in lethe, Job is employed, and though Jonah may be moist, he has a word to deliver. Brah Nebuchadnezzar, the fire wasn’t hot enough, Dear Darius, your lions are vegetarian, Hey Haman, how you hanging?    The grave is empty for my Lord still walks, so ambulate with or march off with your shame. For our prodigies are dead, see the prodigal son return home.