Through All The Windows I Only See

I Do Not Know Anything About Art With A Capital A. What I Do Know About Is My Art. Because It Concerns Me. I Do Not Speak For Others. So I Do Not Speak For Things Which Profess To Speak For Others. My Art, However, Speaks For Me. It Lights My Way.

Absolutely Nothing Visible To The Eye Provides A Reason For Or Even Evidence Of Those Terrifying Shifts Which Can In A Matter Of Moments Reconstitute A Simple Path Into An Extremely Complicated One.

What Miracle Is This? This Giant Tree. It Stands Ten Thousand Feet High But Doesn't Reach The Ground. Still It Stands. Its Roots Must Hold The Sky.

Tom Gets By, Navidson Succeeds. Tom Just Wants To Be, Navidson Must Become. And Yet Despite Such Obvious Differences, Anyone Who Looks Past Tom's Wide Grin And Considers His Eyes Will Find Surprisingly Deep Pools Of Sorrow. Which Is How We Know They Are Brothers, Because Like Tom, Navidson's Eyes Share The Same Water.

He [zampano] Probably Would Of Insisted On Corrections And Edits, He Was His Own Harshest Critic, But I've Come To Believe Errors, Especially Written Errors, Are Often The Only Markers Left By A Solitary Life: To Sacrifice Them Is To Lose The Angels Of Personality, The Riddle Of A Soul. In This Case A Very Old Soul. A Very Old Riddle.