“I find the ideas in the fractals, both as a body of knowledge and as a metaphor, an incredibly important way of looking at the world.” Vice President Al Gore, New York Times, June 21, 2000.
I believe the universe is a holographic fractal. We are holographic because everything in the universe is made from the same building blocks/love/energy/substance. Creating my art is like a spiritual garden where I grow rainbows of colors. It is my meditation, along with yoga, and a way for me to achieve inner and outer harmony as I journey on the spiral path of life.
Fractal geometry reveals a new way of looking at the universe, a hidden order underlying what seem to be chaotic events, through beautiful self similar repeating patterns that have an endless variation of forms throughout scale changes. They have a hidden order and provide order from out of chaos. The point where chaos and order meet each other is the point where the edge of the form meets its surroundings. There are four types of chaos attractors, which balance chaos and bring order from it: the point attractor, cycle attractor, torus attractor and the strange attractor.
Fractals are the geometry of nature and natural forms. Trees, cauliflower, sunflowers, ferns, coastal shorelines and the human artery system are examples of self repeating fractals that are self similar when you change the scale. For example, a tree branch has the same basic structure as the whole tree, including the root structure and one tree is self similar to another tree. We humans are uniquely similar to each other.
The mathematical formulas are rendered on a computer to make the fractal images and can contain over 300,000 points which need to be run through the fractal formula as much as 1000 times. Large, complex fractals can take days to be completed on the computer.Gaston Julia and Pierre Fatou developed the original mathematical theories in 1918, independent of each other and Benoit Mandelbrot is credited with the modern development of fractal geometry in 1980, with the help of computers. He has also applied fractal geometry to economics. The famous “Mandelbrot Set” is named after him and the “Julia Set” after Gaston Julia.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Dear John
He was a Nam Vet having flash backs, I was a black band wearing hippy. “You spit on me when I got back”. “I didn’t spit on you, you are a hero”. “We were over there dying and you were protesting”. “I was protesting because you were over there dying. I was protesting the government, not our soldiers”. “You spit on me”. “You are a hero, I did not…..” We agreed to disagree.
I wrote him a poem.
Dear John,
The world is how we think it is.
We can see it as beautiful and lovely or ugly and fearful.
If you see the world through eyes of beauty,
The world will be beautiful.
If you see the world through eyes of fear,
The world will be fearful.
Only you can choose.
Choose wisely.
Love, Constance
It took awhile.
He changed his mind.
He chose more wisely.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Connie’s old beater Ford pickup catches on fire
My neighbor brings his aluminum cans over to my carport for me to recycle and since he likes his beer, my carport was starting to smell like a brewery. So yesterday I washed the bird doo doo off the side mirrors and the doors of my truck, bagged up the cans for recycling and threw them in the back.
It had been quite awhile since it had been driven, due to its temper-mentality of not starting all the time until I finally got a new battery for it. The truck had not been to town since last summer and I wasn’t sure I trusted it. I grabbed a water bottle, a magazine, made sure my cell phone was charged and wrote down my mechanic’s phone number and stuck it in my purse just in case I needed it.
Off I went, driving the 15 miles to town doing 45 miles an hour on the four lane highway, with the mantra, “Remember, it’s a stick-5 on the floor, clutch, shift”. I noticed the air conditioner wasn’t working and the wind shield wipers were glued to the windshield except for a couple of stray pieces that blew off, and the rain protector on one window was about ready to blow off too, but there were no red lights lit on the dashboard, yippee!
After about 10 miles, there was a bit of a strange smell of something burning, but I brushed it aside, attributing it to a faulty air conditioner, got to the metal recycling place, truck looked fine, got the cans dropped off and started on the journey home with the intent of stopping at the garage and having them put new windshield wipers on.
About 3 miles from the garage the smell started again and got really strong and when I pulled in to the garage, there was smelly smoke rolling from the right front tire and a little old lady sitting at a picnic table out front yelled “Your tire is on fire!”. She told me she used to raise stock cars and told me exactly what was wrong with it. (She turned out to be younger than me, I have aged with grace, thank you Grace). It got fixed, she was right, it was a caliper and I was back on the road to home a couple of hours later. My guardian spirit watches out for me, much gratitude to her.
It had been quite awhile since it had been driven, due to its temper-mentality of not starting all the time until I finally got a new battery for it. The truck had not been to town since last summer and I wasn’t sure I trusted it. I grabbed a water bottle, a magazine, made sure my cell phone was charged and wrote down my mechanic’s phone number and stuck it in my purse just in case I needed it.
Off I went, driving the 15 miles to town doing 45 miles an hour on the four lane highway, with the mantra, “Remember, it’s a stick-5 on the floor, clutch, shift”. I noticed the air conditioner wasn’t working and the wind shield wipers were glued to the windshield except for a couple of stray pieces that blew off, and the rain protector on one window was about ready to blow off too, but there were no red lights lit on the dashboard, yippee!
After about 10 miles, there was a bit of a strange smell of something burning, but I brushed it aside, attributing it to a faulty air conditioner, got to the metal recycling place, truck looked fine, got the cans dropped off and started on the journey home with the intent of stopping at the garage and having them put new windshield wipers on.
About 3 miles from the garage the smell started again and got really strong and when I pulled in to the garage, there was smelly smoke rolling from the right front tire and a little old lady sitting at a picnic table out front yelled “Your tire is on fire!”. She told me she used to raise stock cars and told me exactly what was wrong with it. (She turned out to be younger than me, I have aged with grace, thank you Grace). It got fixed, she was right, it was a caliper and I was back on the road to home a couple of hours later. My guardian spirit watches out for me, much gratitude to her.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Paint Dancing
I love to dance while I paint, to drum music and jazz, Tibetian bells and bowls, ambient and new age, world music and much more. The paint and brush strokes become a path of my energy of being in the presence, linked with my heart, e-motion, and intuition/inspiration of my sky eye.
The paint dance paintings have no story, no visible, recognizable content, no beliefs in whether its art or even means anything. Some persons have a challenge with no story content, they don't understand it. They want the story, the explanation, the meaning to it. If they look with their sky eye, their heart, they will see the energy of the colors and brush strokes of my spirit dancing across the canvas and see both the product and the joy of the process.
Who decides when something is art or not? Does the artist decide by calling it art? Does the critic looking at the piece decide it's art or not? And what is the criteria? Is art serious or can I dance and play and still call it art?
I don't know the answers, each of us has our own answers and point of view and perhaps we each hold a piece of the truth for ourselves.
The paint dance paintings have no story, no visible, recognizable content, no beliefs in whether its art or even means anything. Some persons have a challenge with no story content, they don't understand it. They want the story, the explanation, the meaning to it. If they look with their sky eye, their heart, they will see the energy of the colors and brush strokes of my spirit dancing across the canvas and see both the product and the joy of the process.
Who decides when something is art or not? Does the artist decide by calling it art? Does the critic looking at the piece decide it's art or not? And what is the criteria? Is art serious or can I dance and play and still call it art?
I don't know the answers, each of us has our own answers and point of view and perhaps we each hold a piece of the truth for ourselves.
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