Each man had only one genuine vocation - to find the way to himself. (…) His task was to discover his own destiny - not an arbitrary one - and live it out wholly and resolutely within himself. Everything else was would-be existence, an attempt at evasion, a flight back to the ideals of the masses, conformity and fear of one’s own inwardness.
Hermann Hesse, Demian

Fabienne Verdier

“I enter the surface of the canvas almost explosively.”

Verdier paints on sheets of paper or canvases spread out on the floor. Her painting is vertical, playing with gravity, the weight of the paintbrush, the load of the ink and her body. Suspended between heaven and earth, the paintbrush is guided by spirit and hand, its handle at times hanging from over 10 meters of rope and held in place by a pair of bicycle handlebars. Her physical engagement is key: together with preparatory ascetic practice and “suchness” (the path of spontaneous expression), it forms the basis of Verdier’s work. Beyond this spontaneity of the stroke, the ink flow is also guided in producing the work, in particular in her very large formats. Verdier thus disengages from the rules of Chinese painting: she can go on. add to and rework the matter until she finds just the right form.”

[via razorshapes]

The point is, not to resist the flow. You go up when you’re supposed to go up and down when you’re supposed to go down. When you’re supposed to go up, find the highest tower and climb to the top. When you’re supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go down to the bottom. When there is no flow, stay still. If you resist the flow, everything dries up. If everything dries up, the world is darkness.
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle