They are my quiet obsession, visual poems that never escape my notice if I encounter them in life, in art, in the peculiar arrangements of nature.
Patterns are truth. A collection of sameness forming a whole. And yet, in the most beautiful patterns, the sameness is not exact. There is an irregularity that is more honest and striking.
Toba Khedoori's cold, solitary patterns borne of society's strange efficiency. Agnes Martin's completely abstracted distillations. The meticulous, thick slabs of dotted paint that enliven the flowers of Séraphine de Senlis.
Patterns in architecture are soothing, in music are entrancing. Rhythm, they call it.
“Rhythm is one of the most powerful of pleasures, and when we feel a pleasurable rhythm we hope it will continue. When it does, it grows sweeter.”
Who does not harbor an animal craving for rhythm? The rocking of a mother, the comfort of routine, the ecstasy of physical union are all animated by an essential rhythm. Without rhythm, we scatter and we perish.
The repetition of rhythm is the expression of pattern through time. And it's this repetition that turns out to be the unifying thread that makes oneness through the many.