It attempts to grab at the very roots of manifestation. To reach in through the veils of three dimensional illusion and fondle the stuff in there, the universal soul, the as yet tangible energy of God-mind, whirling around in the awful ethers of creativity. It is a practice bordering on voodoo, wrought with danger, and at the same time, inimitable reward. It may caress the whisper of an angel, touch the fury of a deadly thought, recoil from the heat of a demon, examine the mysteries of things which cannot be understood, but which can, ironically, be appreciated, even if only subliminally. It is the heart broken and the heart swollen by romance, brutally, crudely, deliciously translated into imagery.
Art is the stuff behind the stuff.
It exists in the realms between light and shadow, and at the same time, it is the core of our reality. It is the territory of magicians, the pathway of spiritual warriors. Yet, we are sentients. We cannot help ourselves. This traveler cannot answer these things.