SUNFLOWERS IN MY EYES
(A Glimpse into an Artist’s Inner World)
by Chi Balmaceda Gutierrez
It was one of those sunny November days in Baguio City, the country’s acknowledged artists colony, when the rainy season was off and the sunflowers were riotously abloom in the highlands.
I was seated one morning on the sofa at home in Mirador Hills, mulling about life (ho-ha-hum) and staring blankly into the scenery outside, when the image of a sea of sunflowers as it is reflected upon the glass panes of the open French door caught my eyes.
For me, there is always something other-worldly in the reality of reflected realities, in that it is something that I could see yet couldn’t touch. It is a world unto itself, perhaps another dimension of reality, and this kind of phenomenon right before me -- which only my own bodily reflections could enter -- could sometimes fascinate me no end, making me feel very happy, especially when I try to capture, ensnare the image, on paper or canvas.
While acutely aware of every grain and pockmarks on the pinewood door, I was also simultaneously aware of the other images converging on the glass panes before me -- the wall behind the transparent door, the French door itself, my own reflected image painting the scene and the reflection of the wall behind me with the windows showing the sunlit garden with a sea of sunflowers -- a case of the ‘front’ and ‘back’ meeting at one point.
In drawing, the so-called vanishing point is that point in the horizon of the picture plane where the eyes’ limit is or supposed capacity to see is set.
The beauty of it all is that, using a one-point perspective, if all the lines in the picture converged and met at the so-called vanishing point, that center point seemingly is in me. Seemingly, because scrutinizing the vanishing point/s more closely as something related to vision, this makes me realize that the real vanishing point doesn’t meet at the persona’s eyes in the drawing but outside of it, within me, the seer myself, within the universe in me, perhaps my Soul.
That morning, while staring at the layers of visual realities merged upon the glass panes, I really got to appreciating the miracle of light, the miracle of seeing, in the here and now, enhancing the quality of one’s being.
So, right there, I felt like I was investigating light, investigating visual illusion, albeit I may not be equipped scientifically, philosophically, spiritually or even artistically.
This moment of fascination is also called an aesthetic experience, making us feel more alive, making us experience our being outside of (or forget) time and space, a transcendence, a kind of, if not, an experience in eternity.
Other people, on the other hand call this kind of artistic experience as Soul Travel, an experience of the mind and/or spirit, an experience of the senses that may however, be so intense and beautiful it feels like you are somewhere, outside of your body.
This realization becomes more keenly felt when one gets this certain high in spite of the fact that life, in its barest form outside of this experience, probably sucks. That while in spite of one’s talents and maybe lists of achievements and qualifications, an artist’s economic life can be crippling at times. That while in spite of the fact that the country’s economic life on both the macro and micro levels could drag us down, there is still something worth living for and cherishing for in this country.
As I get consumed by the thoughts of inner life, outside, in the sunlit garden, white butterflies fritter about in the sea of sunflowers that are riotously abloom in the highlands.
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