Saundra Fleming finds herself in Paris, a city of vast inspiration surrounding her. Attempting to write a piece in honor of Gertrude Stein whose exhibit at the Luxembourg Museum alongside Picasso made her think of her freedom as an artist, inventing a new language for literature as Picasso did for painting.

She felt herself to be a blob, slowly sweeping through the streets of this massive and poetically perfect place. Her awareness of things artistic heightened and on her last day in the city, deeply quiet within her instincts for making Art.

“The gift of being here astounds me; it tells me secrets I cannot even acknowledge yet….”

Saundra Fleming November 27, 2023

The Blob Is Alive in Paris

It did move very slowly, scrubbing the streets of Paris. A blob pulsed to protect itself from the vast history, the cuneiform mysteries of ALL OF ART. The joyous pictures of the past parasitic visions were so necessary; the world of creation, a bite into ones own flesh.

There was no running, no walking quickly or without a stress of the blob’s muscular system. This system was phantasmagorical; it was all encompassed by the sugar sweet firing of one nerve cell after the other. Blob things determined opening doors of the mind. Fiery, the edges of the blob, tripped and spilled.

Hope for this blob continued to synthesize. The music of all the centuries evoked into things:

Rubies, potato, song and equation. The shape of the blob itself ran into atmosphere, and into structure, perpetually denying itself. 

The blob is a portrait, in the language of sorrow  and experimentation. Pink or mint green is the blob. The pounding slither defines her agency, defines her joy—

Squished between its questionable fingers, the blob becomes a painter of the gut. No painter of light or form, but instinct and revelatory evolution.

A potential absence of form

A day in Paris is the blob’s beginning. Harsh strike, gentle hand opening in toward the light. The blob is starving and the scrubbing action of its length remembers the ancient. Here is resolution; here is fear. Here is the bile of my soul.

Spitting, the blob rearranges itself on the stair. Dare it to spill often into a jerky, weakened, pitiful lurch. 

It lives in the spit of it’s condition

Painting is always and never!