Many claimed the island was merely the stuff of legends, just old dreams and mumblings of the sedate sages, that sect of mystics on the far western shores at the edge of the endless sea. Those old men and women who drank from their steaming mugs over passive eyes that only ever hinted at their secret knowledge.
They welcomed us without question. They knew why we had made the journey. Why else would we be if we did not believe? What else would it be, if we did not dream it? But it was there, just as the sages forespoke. It was there and only there, on that very spot, at stroke of midnight, in the pitch black of a new moon, could we see that faint glinting beacon off in the dark.
Their words echoed in my head as we boarded our ship and slipped into the churning froth “Do not linger. Dreams remain”
We followed that light into the endless western sea until the sun lifted the dark with a crimson sunrise frothed in plum and saffron. The sea resigned itself to molten glass seeping toward the darkened shore on the horizon. The island rose from the ocean like a mirage of mist and emerald hills rising from the sea. The air was filled with soft lilting breeze that moved in a rhythmic calming ebb and lull. We could not tell from where the sound came, but it smoothed and softened and blurred everything around the edges in its embrace.
As we pulled our boat ashore a warm breeze stirred, and we were wafted with the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves, the scent of the sages’ tea. The waist deep grass was still and preternaturally lush and green. Each time the wind blew, the thick blades would rustle quiet reassurances; the waves would breathe comforting sighs. There was not a jagged edge or roughened stone. Each boulder, each stone, every leaf and blade of grass was somehow…
soft,
smooth,
quiet,
calming.
Looking down the shoreline we could see pathways dotting an inland ocean of grass. They were well worn from the padding of bare feet over uncounted generations. They welcomed you as they meandered through the green into a tree line of ancient oak and sycamore. The forest rose into the fog and crept into the valleys below where these ancient sentinels overgrew and dwarfed the enormous boulders dotting the shore. The Watchers’ strangely warm and smooth bark twisted and rose in boughs and branches intertwining to overtake the sky while footpaths wound serpentine into their under-forest in ever deepening green and purple shadows. It was told the bark of the Watchers had mystical powers. The redolent green seas filled with the spice of the sages’ tea gave one visions and foresight. The Nyx were impossible to see directly. But if you sat very still you could see them curiously approach and flicker in the periphery of your sight. The very island softly thrummed with primeval power and might and hinted at the delight of mythos long told…
But…
It was the Lotus that was the most magical and mercurial.
The Lotus foresaw all.
The Lotus forespoke all.
This was the land of the watchers, the dreamers, the weavers.
The Lotus eaters.
–Anthony Cisco
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Oftentimes people ask me what my paintings mean, but the painting itself is my expression. I would love to hear what they mean to YOU! When you share words that convey your experience of a painting in that moment, we’re telling a story together. Each of us see something different and all of those layers of experience create something beyond what exists on the canvas. I encourage you to message me or comment and share the thoughts and feelings that your favorite painting conveys.
