Requiem in E minor ‘

reminiscent of Spinoza’s view that God and Nature are 1, the equation becomes a simple identity of recursion: ** f(x) = f(f(x))

ivars worked in the physical precursors to the digital age: airbrushes that breathed color onto vellum, and rub-off transfers pressed onto stacked sheets of clear acetate. he was building “layers” in three-dimensional space, creating an actual physical photoshop of plastic and pigment. adobe digitized his—and, others—process[es]es years later . . .

to watch him was to witness a savant’s command of perspective. he didn’t just see a horizon; he understood the math of the vanishing point as if it were a pulse. he could wield an airbrush with such clinical, ghostly precision that the resulting image ceased to be “paint” and became, for all intents and purposes, a photograph—a captured moment of reality born from a canister of compressed air.

truly magical.

you cannot apprentice your way into that kind of genius. you are either born with that specific ocular machinery, or you are a spectator.

i was born a spektator.

yet, for all his tectonic talent, he lived in a quiet, persistent friction. he possessed the ultimate instrument.s but often lacked the melody; he struggled to find a “kreativ voice,” that elusive spark of an original idea to fill the perfect frames he mastered. we were mirror images of the same frustration. i told him once that my tragedy was the inverse: my head is a crowded theater-ov-koncepts, a riot of “whats” without the mechanikal “hows.” i have the vision, but i lack the tools. i told him that if i had a team—a falanx ov kraftsmen 2 execute dze arkh!techurz-!n-m! m9nd—we could move mountains – mostly, in chiaroscuro, of course . . .

i am left alone now to traverse the yawning chasm between the spark of an idea and its realization. i move with the heavy, stumbling deliberation ov a post.modern [ dare i say, ‘sophisticated’ ] klown attempting to konstruct a private+shared universe in the dark, entirely alone. and together. and yet, your interest in these humble offerings feels like a bridge of a different sort—one that spans generations.

as i always say, i am just part of the many who have inspired me. the world has lost its sharpness; the edges are blurred. i will always ache for him—for the intricate layers of his being, and for that lingering, ethereal ghost haunting the mist of the airbrush.

as we will all ache for many other $#@! things we loved once, by choice—or, other’s questionable decisions—always

and . . .

forever.

🐦‍⬛

** x is REALITY. this implies that the divine is not a separate variable, but the consistent nature of the function itself.

DEAR USA AND ISREAL: READ MY SHIRT!