I love what I call shared faces — faces that blend and overlap in mutual understanding, compassion, and sympathy. I have drawn many such, without knowing how the first of them came about; it was, most definitely, not a matter of deliberation or intent. In other words, it just happened. And just as they exist in me, in the so-called “imaginary world,” they exist around me, in the so-called “real […]
The face you see in your mirror is another miracle. It is a reflection of a reflection — of your life and times and the place you live, and wherever else you roam. It is a reflection of what you think, of what you believe about yourself and about others, and of what it means to you to be alive. A face is a story, told without words. It is […]
And Man probably reveals more about me than it does the human condition, though I can’t separate myself from that condition, and wouldn’t care to if I could. I don’t want to see myself as something apart from everyone and everything else. If I’m lucky, I’ll rise as far as the condition allows, while it’s clear by this drawing I have already fathomed its depths. There’s a key element here: […]
The face on the right might be appropriate for a volume about ancient Rome; the one on the left looks almost as old, as if a monk long ago had seen it in a dream — or maybe the dreamer was drawn by another monk while he was asleep. Or maybe both were asleep. Either way, however it happened, I myself awoke from a dream this morning in which I […]
Drinking from the birdbath, washing face and hands, a pretty little wasp teaches me. . [ 1798 ]
A clock without numbers. A clock without hands. A face out of time. . [ 1621 ]
Hands wrapp’d ’round a warm cup — faceless night, nameless fire. . [ 1533 ]
Let’s leave behind a few clay pots and a worn out pair of sandals. As for dreams and thoughts, let’s keep them guessing. They will be anyway: Religion, music, poetry, science — cathedrals, symphonies, books — Fragments that represent, but never quite make, the whole. Our little daughter said it best with the very first word she spoke: Light. She was nine months old. And when she was seven, She […]
On the trail a few days ago, I saw a very large cottonwood leaf, a brittle survivor of winter. It struck me as a kind of landmark, something that would always be there, even in its eventual absence, and in mine, its brown face held together by distinct veins, waiting patiently for an ant to walk by. I’ve thought of it each day since. Next time, if there is a […]
William Michaelian 