Beauty exists, but demands to be discovered by the artist. Like the passing of invisible soothing hands over his eyes, he is now capable to superimpose passion and creativity over the mundane of this world in an alchemy that transforms mere notes, basic colors and inert words into the language of the eternal.
It is the tremble of anticipation, the held breath. It is found in the exact second when the parachute does't open, in the lingering space between fingertips when lovers part. It is the infinitesimal moment between my girlfriend's sleepy eyes lighting on me beside her and her first morning smile.
I'm a sky watcher. I'm looking for aliens, but what I get from the experience is a rabid awe and excitement of something new, visitors from another realm. While the images I present are not meant to be aliens, I hope to capture the beauty and acceptance of the unknown.
In my youth I was forever moved by Leonard Cohen's poem, "Suzanne." I wanted to be her, to be the one who showed others where to look for beauty in the garbage and the seaweed. Because I saw it, too. More than three decades later, I am still blinded by the beautiful in chaos, in clutter, in the flawed, the noisy, and the broken.
The real creation was done by our contributors, who wrote and thought and painted and photographed and sculpted and played and composed. There's so much talent out there, such incredible minds, legions of people doing wonderful things, even if conditions seem sometimes unpropitious.
Beauty is mystical in the strict sense --- that is, it is knowable by direct experience that inspires awe and fascination, without necessarily being susceptible to definition --- and also involves the notion of limit. Only that which comes to an end is beautiful.