I write in an empty room. Officially, it's an extra room; a friend opened a gallery six years ago leaving one room unoccupied. She had conscientiously hoped to put the space to work, but after four years of neglect reluctantly agreed to my intrusion. The room is well lit, bright in fact, and quiet. A desk, the room's sole piece of furniture, sits toward the center of the room facing a tall pair of windows. A fire escape smartly crosses the window from corner to corner stenciling a slice of the ash blue New York sky. Nine stories down, through the weathered metal, the blunted black dirtied with reds and browns, rests a small church. Nestled between two large buildings, the church humbly offers its facade.

Asymmetry slowly, subtly and convincingly usurped traditional ideas about beauty: colors became independent of content, context became dynamic and mirrors became untrustworthy. Synaesthesis, a mysterious, momentous concept, re-entered the collective conscience. This spirit remains faithfully incommensurable with time. Purposely, I keep odd hours so as to avoid the rushed hours of the day, but today I was ruthlessly thrown in the current of convention. Wearily I push myself into the disgruntled bus, shaking the snow from my body. As I make my way to the back of the bus I am recalling parts of the essay in search of a title. My mind goes white as I can no longer lean forward, no longer move in any direction. A large woman rises bracing herself, prudently timing her struggle to reach the rear door before the next stop. The aisle bodies refuse to acknowledge her and stubbornly accommodate her addition by creating a disheveled and somewhat disheartened ripple. Luck being grounded in a simple mathematics equation, some uncanny law of physics thrusts me into the newly vacant seat, and I promptly take a deep breath. I was nodding before the next stop and asleep by the following.

The artist's first works are guided by unfocused attention, spellbound energy and an epic perspective. One cannot get closer to honesty. A paradoxical tradeoff occurs when the artist cultivates vision: as ideas are refined and values are defined, the artist's notions are honed and progressively limited in breadth. The artist's ultimate niche in creative understanding can always be found as a study in their initial efforts: Klee's Twittering Machine, Joyce's Dubliners, Rilke's Advent and Stravinsky's Rite of Spring all demonstrate talent and hone the awakening insight. Insomnia blessed me last night and I finished my piece. Surprisingly, the question resolved itself with striking economy. Metronome-like, the ceiling fan clicked the moments of darkness away with unforgiving constancy, and as the sun rose, its shadow slowly reached for the far end of the room. The impulse accompanied my unhindered flight through composition early this morning; again, this marvelous combination of sensations rose to awareness. Two boys are racing up a hill, each is trying to run a circle around the other. A cloudless Cobalt sky settles tranquilly on a vast horizon of long grass; a strong wind cuts through the greens and blues forcefully whirling the laughter in all directions, and the subtle scent of the ocean effuses from the soil. It comes to me in light sleep and leaves my heart pounding, my body still and my lips parted (...the awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships...). Throughout history, sleep has secretly sculpted the desires and motivations of many.

A tempest, Caravaggio managed to concentrate his raw intensity on canvas; his contemporary, Carraci, quietly made his mark with heightened sensitivity. Together they ushered in the seventeenth century, one's aggressive coloration complementing the other's gentle lines. And again the world rethought beauty. Semi-conscious revelry promises rejuvenation. As I linger just this side of sleep, I remember being in Rome, alone in the Ruins one night. Viewing the immense architecture surrounding this sentimental cemetery was overwhelming. The deep shadows magnified the lines, planes and angles of the architecture, and the patterns of stone neatly unfolded into music. The white structures continued to breathe while a dark indigo sky raced beyond. I put my hands in my pockets out of habit, considering the deceptive symmetry. There I found a pear. This oddly shaped flesh covered in pale green skin lacked distracting decoration and tactile texture. There was no shine, but so much brilliance. With all the gravity of revelation I stood transfixed; I found myself in the company of slight flaws, loose threads, Nature's flexibility and Epimetheus' charismatic ugliness. So I smile as today's shadows and hums return to the surface, uncertain why my eyes are focused on a patch of people in the distance.

The reaction to Mannerism was strong and well founded; there was purpose, originality and talent. And this character thrived. However, that slight discrepancy between concept and execution emerged and grew unnoticed. Led by fashion, the movement's defining notion transformed into the grotesquely ornate and bizarre. Even the best of artists bought the empty shell, unwittingly Perpetuating the white lie. Rosemary walks slowly but deliberately, confidently. Oblivious to the swarm of eyes, the intrigue her presence causes, she continues steadily with her thoughts. There is no confrontational clothing, no makeup, no jewelry. As a matter of fact she dresses plainly; living in New York (Paris' little brother), she is well aware of fashion and wholly unimpressed. She effortlessly exudes a simple self awareness, an unassuming happiness. Actually, there is one piece of jewelry, a thin string of pearls. It lies quietly about her neck just reaching the collar bone to make two slight bumps before completing the circle. Occasionally, she will describe the shape of a pearl with all the animation and enthusiasm of a child explaining that no two snowflakes are alike. Midsentence midway, she will stop abruptly as if guilty of self-indulgence. Looking away wistfully (immediately exonerated and secretly glorified) she will smile and softly run her finger tips over the necklace. I write and Rosemary walks; she smiles and I talk.

The chaotic flow of thought races; reason relentlessly chases emotion to no end and imagination encircles the two. Light plays in the landscape of time. There can be balance and harmony, but never symmetry. It is she. I sit up straight peering into the private hour of my companion. The light changes and the bus accelerates. As the engine roars, I think fleetingly it's acceleration we really want. Velocity is to acceleration as appetite is to hunger. And the world should be hungry. A robust, elderly man clears his throat and for a moment I hear nothing else. She is crossing Broadway now, eyeing the opening on 1lOth left by a cab collecting its fare. She waits. Her long black jacket flaps shyly in the winter wind, while her eyes briefly survey the traffic running north. She looks up as if tracking a bird and slowly closes her eyes. She crosses in front of the bus and I lose sight of her.

Indulging attention and expression, creativity recreates itself Again, its salvation is found in context; philosophy is a result, not a cause. The quality of Art, forever distracting and clarifying, persistently influences understanding, defines value. This peculiar dynamic incidentally touches us, passes through us (...and scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by, the transient pleasures as a vision seem...). Consequently, contact caresses the contexture of memory. The history of existence swells in each of us for a moment. The bus turns on to Broadway, and as I turn to watch Rosemary, vertigo grabs hold. I am quickly rotated around her figure; she continues to walk but doesn't seem to move, as if a taut string attaches her necklace to the front of the bus, spinning the bus perfectly on her axis. Suddenly, she is the axis and the spinning continues with some predictability. The brick and brown stone, the billboards and used-book stands, the twilight and sparkling pavement swirl around her. The word beautiful is spoken in my mind, dispassionately and repeatedly. As the bus straightens out, the scenery slows, bending away from her as if it might fall. Quickly, the variations cover her, the colors blend and novel combinations are newly juxtaposed. Yes. I think. Pearls and Pears.

Bing Hinton