From the fertile and transformative mundane egg all
things do flow, from chaos to consciousness, from yin
to yang, Dr. Freud to Dr. Frankenfurter. Inexorable,
impermanent and eternal.
I am drawn to this idea. To the prospect of
perpetual awakening, of becoming
but not yet being, to revolution fomenting
out of the corner of the eye, predatory, seductive,
stalking at the edges of attention, incandescent one
instant and then gone, only to be repeated later
in another moment. And then another and another,
insistent, elusive...
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Broken shell is everywhere. Comprehension
suspended, the artist careens from one notion to
the next, one thought, one action, one impulse, one
purpose, disconnected from logic yet searching for
meaning, puzzling, piecing together.
Filling the canvas.
How did Humpty Dumpty fall?
What was his frame of mind?
Was he pushed or did he jump?
What was his rate of descent?
His trajectory?
Severity of impact?
The radius of collateral damage?
Witnesses tell us that Humpty Dumpty fell and he couldn't
get up; and, then, incredibly, even all the king's horses and
all the king's men couldn't put him back together again.
In the end the artist struggles to comprehend the
epiphany embedded in this peculiar moment. For it is
not only Humpty Dumpty who has fallen. The king,
too, has lost his footing and has been overthrown,
undermined by his own regal impotence,
drowned in the riptide of unpredictable events,
incapable of preventing the mundane egg from
cracking open and pouring forth the riches of rebellion.
The king is dead, a delirious mob chants from the yolk filled
streets. The king is dead, the artist, painting bold strokes,
mutters to his canvas.
The king is dead, echoes the chorus from beyond the pale.
The king is dead.
The king is dead.
Long live the king.
