Digitalism Art and Word

Digitalism is a form of art that has transpired with the marriage of art and technology. Digitalism encompasses not only the strokes and colors of art but the words transmitted through the art. This combination of art , word and technology has evolved in the Age of Digitalism.

The Age of Digitalism is a time where the internet serves as a mode of transmission for the display of art, form, word and rhythm to be accessible globally in an instant without any boundaries. Digitalism is the first stage in the history of art which has evolved as a form of artistic style in an evolutionary combination with technological development. Digitalism art style permits a vast sense of freedom of expression for an artist. Technology has provided paint and brushes and other tools and the artist provides the strokes, talent and creation which for the first time makes it available to reach beyond the physical art galleries and can exist i.e. the digital format on a screen in its organic digital existence before being printed into canvas or paper or any other medium.

In the following display of art and word I draw in the most primitive Digitalism format that is with only the use of the mouse to maneuver the art software. Like every picture tells a story , here is a show of Digitalism Art and Word.

Blonde with a Flower

A black Blonde
always with a flower
in her hair
a temper no one could flare
but once in a while
she was known to shake
the tree until all
the leaves gave up.

Things always need to move
she said.
life is a dance, it moves

with you
like salsa to rock then maybe
slowly
slow it down
catch your breath
to dance again.

Sometimes a dance is alone,
or with another
sometimes with a nation
but freedom only comes
she said
when you lead
with good intention.

Like her mama said
get on your knees
with a prayer
thats how you lead
to build a good home
to stay grounded
for only a steeple of hope
and the love of God
will anchor your children
to know how to walk
and to walk tall.

The dance she learned was simple
all that mattered
were the steps
on whats right
and whats wrong.
Someone taught it to her
and in that way
she was the lucky one.

The noise of greed
and power
always flows
like rush hour traffic
with many brains competing
honking each other out
but all schemes are man made
so in the struggle
she always wore
the gentle flower
in her hair
to remember
an intention
pure.

Franco

His name is Franco.

With a pair of scissors
like a paintbrush
he can see if your cheekbones
can carry your eyes
or if your lips caress your smile
He even knows just how much
of a soft breeze
will move your strand.
Before he cuts
He sometimes smokes
often absent minded
2 cigarettes at one time.

In his introvert wonder
asks why he has no words
then just sighs in silence
as he starts the cut.

Hair falls to the floor
“So is he still the love of your life?”
he asks then listens
as his scissors cuts
your response
while strands of hair keep
falling down
like emphatic prepositions
in the air.

Beauty for him is speechless
something he holds inside
compliments are understood
without flattery’s fan.
Just the puff and smoke
the trance of the task
of feeling you
through
texture
and rhythm of your hair.

As his scissors gently cuts
sharp angles to a conversation
releasing limp energy
restoring lost vigor
by now he knows you well
like no one
ever has and he
bluntly tells you
what he knows about you
all from his fingers moving
and feeling
the spirit
of your hair.

Sleep

Sleep she came

with 2 dolphins and 2 birds.

Sleep was serene smiling
with a gentle ocean ripple
she splashed some waves
with wings and fins and lashes
then her eyes closed
into deep peaceful blues.
Sleep assured me promises
as we frolicked through
colours and visions of tomorrow
sank me into familiar grounds
of the safe and comfort of early years
playing with stones and petals
riding my bicycle hands free
the warm tropical sun on pacific blue
my grandmother and grandfather standing
at the blue gate waiting with
open arms and i sank deeper
as sleep she took me far
beyond the blue
feeding grains from the palm of my hand
to a morning dove
on my grandfather’s lap
smiling with content
cushioned on pillows of clouds.
Sleep is the in between state
just like our training wheels
to ride
the time from here
to there.

Holding On to Jesus

Looking up
i saw my story
on a stained glass window
never had i
seen this before.
Many times have i prayed
seated on the same pew
in the same church

Lost days i carried
like empty space
with sorrow and hurt
my heart painted red
bleeding.

But now as light
breaks
the psalmist’s song
saints and angels
the doves
and the lamb
the Virgin Mary and Joseph
reveal themselves
as though they are known to me
and i have known
and met
along past paths.

They have been in everyman’s path
over and over again
mistakes are made,
consequences paid
but close your eyes
and let your eyes see
the promise to keep
with regrets forgiven
enemies swallowed
wounds bud flowers

Hold on to Jesus
your heart a sacred church
has the love which loves God
know as i hold on to Jesus
all what i could ever want
is in God’s loveable will
and has never been
where i was looking
once upon a time
in the will of man.

The following is a poem entitled, Tribute to a Witch” by my daughter Tania John written in 1995 which was a winning entry in the Junior Poetry Category representing her school, University Village Public School for her presentation of it at University of Guelph’s Young Writers’ Literary Competition. It was published in Focus 1995 along with other winning entries by local school participants held by the University of Guelph’s Young Writers’ Literary Competition. One of the editors of Focus 1995 publication,, Marianne Micros wrote in the introduction, “Tania John , in Tribute To A Witch re-creates a magical rite which mingles the sublime with the trivial, to give birth to—-what?”….taking “us beyond the natural world into the supernatural”(p.4. Focus 1995)

Tribute To A Witch

Dark and jagged rocks

add overalls and fluffy frocks

newt eyes and frog legs

chicken bones and billboard pegs

simmer and sizzle

Pterodactyl from an archaeologist’s chisel

Neanderthal blood and marrow

mixed with the breath of Tutankhamen the pharaoh

stir in a clay vase and bury in the ground

twenty-one days thereafter swallow it down

nine months later

the return of the Magical Creator.

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Written and Illustrated by Tania John