The Facts of Life - V5 No1 Pages 4 and 5 Introduction Part 2

Storytelling is the nature of what I hear when I listen into everything. Storytelling; the human hungers that come right after survival, like right after the belly's full; I mean … we invented languages just so we could elaborate on our stories. Art itself is a kind of religion of storytelling. And religion is just "…dead but not yet buried imagination" (eec). Every image is a complete story, our "Reader" (our subconscious), tells us, if we listen, how any image came about, and the trajectory of where the image-event will possibly go based on the gestalt of clues. In many ways this is what Pollock offered, in a concretized form; that art is a summation, a "still-point" in an extending story, in a larger frame of reference. It is this innate desire/function to read (inductive-deductive) which creates an on going story from two divergent images in a formal proximity, as in film-edits and comic-panels. A series of images initiates the Readers participation in that virtually-alert (sub-conscious) space between two images.
Art itself has arrived at a loop in the story of "The Individual", tenaciously gutting-out a fearless …"NOTHING," (egomaniacally and chest thumpingly brave). But even Malevich needed to describe his Desert-of-Feeling with metaphors. Because the soul (as a Godless, mortal, and insular symbiotic) feeds on story.
So where am I going with this? My comics. I build stories about the life of a soul through images (verbal and visual) that carry their own life, their own readable depth that speak to the "Reader" without explanation, (and not meant for everyone). The subplot of my images is that no smallest part of any images is any less observed, necessary, beloved, and exacted, than another, and that everything is made of a readably conscious language. With the soul's nod of tenacity, if it's true to its end, a kid living in Lower Utopia could make a novel with only eleven pages.
Is art a disguise I've put on just to have my say? ………Yeah? And it is embarrassing, but what choice do I have? The air whispers by kidding at my hair, the first drop of rain parts my lips, mud hugs to my feet and climbs me, flicked up to my ankles, and the fire leans towards wherever I sit. It's a fucking conspiracy from the elements down! Isn't it? Everything lifts its huge toothy head and growls "Talk! Tell us!" I say, "What do you want me to say?" And everything answers in a little kid's voice, "Tell us a story."

So ... once upon a time ... with love, and a heart full of Animals ... Amen.
Your brother
Toc Fetch