Timothy Nathan Joel, May 2012

RED READING RED
(version 2).

Dearest Red Room,

It’s been a painting since we last spoke. I trust you’re as healthy as ever
And getting accustomed to the freedom we seek.
My prose has been lacking, being away from you like this.
My painting on the other hand, is never without its purpose.
Feeling in the dark as it does, knowing the truth is out there.

What it feels suggests there is a roulette at play during all parts of our day.
Every now and then I take a risk and gamble,
Much to the dismay of Winston, Sophia and Loren (my dogs).
Like the night my motorbike rode me into a blossom tree.
Leaving me stunned on the ground then spinal tap bound.
An episode resulting in a true love found (my nurse).

Tell me Red Room, with all one’s rehearsing, ranting, ravings and romanticizing.
What do those people in front of you, who so kindly un-shingle their chastised feet for you, have to say about where we are?
Is the enclosed writer free to read your mind? Does the view seem real to you?
What would you hear if we remain silent?

I am without a doubt a very naïve post modern expressionist by day
And a surreal impressionist by night.
A midnight toker, a self critical insomniac and a red wine prophet in need.
A thinker, a lover, a dreamer, a doer and a prover.
Am I talking to myself again or are you there with me?

A dead man once told me “Be accommodating to all those souls, but always allow time for your own.” Red to me is the colour of the soul.
It is that which flows throughout us and came from a place we have no fine knowledge of.
Knowledge these days is over stated. It is tainted.
It is steered with its horns by invisible clutches.
It is a rooftop with no visible ledge. It is outside this space.

Red Room, you are coursing through all our veins. You are always here when we appear. We won’t forget to lend an ear. What we learn from you is nothing new.
We come here because of you.

And if every generation has its beat, then why wait for the stomp of feet.
Or the climate change to raise the heat.
Are we here to raise a glass?
Are we here to stop a farce? Are you the one to ask?
Should we treat your stage as our mask?
Is your wine table there to help us read our line?
All these questions are answered in time, and time is all it takes.
Once you’ve realized what time takes from you.
The anagram emit shows clearly what we miss.

 But back to the point and the point being sharp.
All the world is a stage and all in the world light up their rightful time.
Yet when the world whines not all of us hear in time.
Is this why when I need water all I want is wine?
Is it darkest just before the dawn? How would so many know,
Lost in their cities of polluted night.

Red Room, must we come here to be read?
What if I am blue and know not what to do?
What if I am green with envy?
What if my words have a silver lining?
What if my golden tongue knows no rest?
And if from darkness comes the light, then one’s truth must surely be revealed.
At which point, as a soul would state, there is no turning back.
There exists no choice.

 Alive is felt once out of one’s hive.
There is more than one sky in which one must try.
Blake noted all men seeing life through narrow chinks of his cavern.
May we not let that happen.
The dead man is me, I just like projecting ahead.
And here resides my biggest clue to each and every red rumor of you.

TIM JOEL
www.joeljoel.com

bio:
Life as an artist began in 2000 for British oil painter Tim Joel. Tropical island scenes inspired by living in Thailand were the first to wet his palette.His thirst for art and travel has lead Tim all over the world.  His subject matter ranges from delicate floral still life to bold & vibrant mythological landscapes.Tim Joel has worked as an artist and art teacher in Taiwan since 2002. His book ‘Poet Painter’ was published in 2005.Tim is co-founder of an art movement, various studios, galleries and on the Red Room team.