Ode to a Fragment of Silence is my depiction of my father Bernard Pinto's final journey and reads from right to left. This drawn narrative is a reenactment, a walking, from a place which at that time I still called home — to the cemetery. The narration being a recital of the funereal events drawn to reflect my voice, the lines emanating as marks upon reflection on photographs; and most emphatically a narratology of my fathers voice coming to me as fragments. Memory traces, fragmentations, lines, blots, pressure, the spirit of the moments shared giving form, a trace, transparency, lucidity — some meaning. The moments of drawing, moments within drawing, fragments, stylistic or otherwise. But what really led me to the paper? Rothko in an address to Pratt Institute in November 1958 emphatically spelled out the idea that one must look beyond the concern for self-expression towards seeking ingredients such as having a “clear preoccupation with death — intimation of mortality … Tragic art, romantic art, etc… deals with

चिTo draw whatever, become that. I believe deeply in such an emotive transformation. In becoming one with the ones, you reach towards a becoming one with the other and in the One. This project tapped my narrative compositional ability at a point when Here is a project that give a small glimpse of what I can do. 

Become one with bears and pines, and …! In becoming one with the ones (elements in visual narratives), you reach towards a becoming one with the other (collaborator) and in the One. 

In desiring oneness with the ones (elements) you reach towards being one with the other (a collaborator), moving towards the One. 

Canon for Bears and Ponderosa Pines “In this new and startling collection, Diane Frank’s poems transcend not just genres but entire dimensions. When she speaks to J.S. Bach, she really means it and when Bach speaks back, she listens — entirely — the way certain moths perceive sound via their whole body, even their wings. How is this accomplished? It will seem to come through the poems themselves — their music, tonal qualities and subjects, yet it goes even deeper as it pushes up like duende through the soles of your feet. The voice is declarative, emphatic, spirit driven. She will tell you, ‘When a buffalo enters your dream, / listen for arpeggio hooves, / the weight of music, / a copper moon / above a vanishing prairie’ and you will, you must listen.” —Lois P. Jones, author of Night Ladder, Radio Host, KPFK’s Poets Café

Is!

Recently, in response to an interest in my art I could barely remember my artistic labor having a Christian component! What happened? Realized now, that I see what I do as catholic — universal. Liberal in embrace and acceptance, not the liberal connotation du jour. I see myself as a Hindu Christian. So Christ crucified on a banyan tree with a baby monkey keeping anguished watch is equally or more relevant to non-Christians. True, it will be seen as Christian, steeped as it is in its realization and rootedness in faith, although it never occurred to me that it was singularly Christian art. In the broadest sense which frighteningly envelope everything, I reflect on ideas at the intersection of religion, sexuality and consciousness. In standing at the crossroads I see as suggested in Jeremiah 6:16: Thus saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein — conduits towards comprehension from various quarters. That is my reading.