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The Art of the Damned

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  The Art of the Damned The current gallery system functions as a modern dam built right at the headwaters of artistic creation. The headwaters are the raw, bubbling springs high in the mountains—wild, uncontainable, fed by countless small tributaries of individual vision, experimentation, failure, intuition, and obsession. This is where most serious art actually begins: in studios, bedrooms, sketchbooks, late-night arguments, personal crises, and private obsessions, long before any curator or collector ever hears a name. Once a handful of major galleries, institutions, auction houses, and their allied gatekeepers (collectors, critics, fair directors, residency programs) gain decisive influence over those headwaters—deciding which artists get early solo shows, which receive press, which enter the "right" conversations, which are anointed with blue-chip representation—they effectively place the dam. From that point forward: The flow of visibility, legitimacy, money, and audien...
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Travel Lake Bennett

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It only takes the slightest breeze.
After each sunset.
Before the problems of the day are resolved.

The bludgeoned crawl out.
To reclaim some dignity.
And some semblance of affinity with living.
And their efficacy to feel beautiful.

The opportunity to refract and diverge with their whispers.
If you want to listen to them.


3am in the morning.
When the void sets in.
And all daily grinds transpire.
Stone cold awake.

Then night allows your creativity.
The force denied brilliant struggle.
By stripping away your defenses.

You wake up and feel the affinity.
The moon, stars, and clouds.
Listen to your reptilian cycle.
Before the window closes.
And you have forgotten the introspection.




Quiet conversations.
On whatever breeze chances by.
No longer demanding hardened options.
Or decisive actions.

Just being aware of stillness.
As an uncomplicated opportunity.
When elsewhere else has none.
Claim this moment.
To be within yourself.




Translucent memories.
Whispering for your return.
To childhood when nothing was an option.
Without the graveyard of divisive actions.

Drifting through the stillness.
Lulled.
Without care.
Engrossed at the moment.
As a cloud appears.
And without your permission.
Transfixes your amazement.




Lake Bennett  Water Cloud Branch 
Full Moon Reflections

When the moon finally breaks through.
And the restless breeze wanders between.
Past hatreds and future promises.
And the decisions of others who cut me down.

I just cannot stop.
And I fight with myself for my life.
Knowing others fight harder.
Never to gain even.
But I never wanted to march.
But I did.




When my thoughts don't realize.
I become restless.
I wander between what could have been.
My hatreds and false starts.
And all decisions I could never make.

My sky dreaming.
My glass ceilings.
I as the consumer.
Stoked by the genius.
Those who know better for me.
And the wasted life of never meeting promises.
But still, I follow.







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