Crossing


untitled, 1992, 30″ x 22″, monoprint
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Cross is a strange word.

It is a religious symbol, yes.

And used differently it can mean sourness as in: “I am cross with you.”

You can cross over or into.

Cross one mushroom with another and get a third.

Cross out a whole sentence.

Or cross paths with another.

The gist seems to be a meeting point where one thing joins another or pretty much obliterates what was happening previously.

I heard someone on the radio speaking about the symbology of the cross in Christianity.

He described it like this: The horizontal line is representative of our very humanness.

We traverse these waters and have our various experiences, good and not so good.

The generator is our WILL.

We will ourselves forward and shoulder the very heavy HORIZONTALNESS (my word..) which certainly can be peppered with adventure, intrigue and golden things.

If we are fortunate, the luggage gets too heavy and we put it down to rest a bit and see a street sign still dripping with fresh paint with only the word “OTHER.”

We are so damn tired of the road and the weight and the willing of it all that we haven’t the strength to keep to our plan and so we leave the bags at the corner and make the turn.

The only thing we take with us is surrender.

And the turn opens to us and keeps opening and we fall in love with the question mark.

‘Till we get scared and need our favorite shirt from the left behind luggage and we retrace our steps back to the crossing.

But now the beloved shirt has a moth hole.

So we leave it at the side of the road and make the turn once again…

…and again..

..and again.

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