Dancing with Pan (2)

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This follows “Dancing with Pan (1)” – see recent posts.

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Musicians 1987

Picasso made a deep and disturbing impression on me when I was small – which in later life would liberate my drawing.

“Pitraffic” – 1954

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Shostakovich’s “Babi Yar” Symphony 1990

These are the four movements of Shostakovich’s 13th symphony – a sombre elegy on human evil, and the defiant vitality and humour of the spirit.  Babi Yar commemorates a Nazi massacre of 100,000 souls near Kiev, in 1941.

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Pan Dance Hokhmah 1990

This painting grew from the sketch above it, which followed Babi Yar.   My intention was to paint a series inspired by the Sefiroth of the Tree:  this one was how I saw Hokhmah, the 1st emanation – Wisdom.  The dancing figure is pierced by the Light, and instantaneously gives birth.  The embryo (breech delivery) is drawn the way my daughter drew childrens’ heads at the time.  Behind the baby profile, like a shadow, is just visible, another profile – the way I drew my early heads.   At the bottom right hand corner are “glow-worms” to light a path through the abyss, and back to the Upper Worlds.

I was studying the Letters and Names of God down the Tree – their creative currency – particularly the Tetragrammaton, sheathing the infinite potential of Aleph.  The dancer looks both ways, at a right angle:  the relation of life to Consciousness.  Around the infinity sign, the paint floats like autumn leaves, a mandala.  Birth, death and the Tree of Life are One.

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Janus, 1954

These early drawings were very large. They filled each page of the drawing-books of cheap lining paper my mother bought in rolls, and cut and stitched together.  In those days I drew for many hours at a stretch, every day.  We lived on the Yorkshire moors.

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The youthful Pan – 1990

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Young Dryad 1957

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From “The Great God Pan” by Arthur Machen

“Strangely, that wonderful hot day of the ‘fifties rose up in Clarke’s imagination; the sense of dazzling all-pervading sunlight seemed to blot out the shadows and the lights of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated air beating in gusts about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and heard the myriad murmur of the summer. 

“… he could only think of the lonely walk he had taken fifteen years ago; it was his last look at the fields and woods he had known since he was a child, and now it all stood out in brilliant light, as a picture before him.  Above all, there came to his nostrils the scent of summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the odour of the woods, of cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn forth by the sun’s heat;  and the scent of the good earth, lying as it were, with arms stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all. 

“His fancies made him wander, as he had wondered long ago, from the fields into the wood, tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of beech trees;  and the trickle of water dropping from limestone rock sounded as a clear melody in the dream.

“Thoughts began to go astray, and to mingle with other recollections;  the beech alley was transformed to a path beneath ilex trees, and here and there a vine climbed from bough to bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with purple grapes, and the sparse grey-green leaves of an olive tree stood out against the dark shadows of the ilex. 

“Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was conscious that the path from his father’s house had led him into an undiscovered country, and he was wondering at the strangeness of it all, when suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an infinite silence seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed, and for a moment of time he stood face to face there with a presence, that was neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but all things mingled, the form of all things but devoid of all form. 

“And in that moment the sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and a voice seemed to cry, ‘Let us go hence’, and then the darkness of darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting.”

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“Look about you, Clarke.  You see the mountain, and hill following after hill, as wave on wave, you see the woods and orchards, the fields of ripe corn, and the meadows reaching to the reed-beds by the river.  You see me standing here beside you, and hear my voice; but I tell you that all these things – yes, from that star that has just shone out in the sky, to the solid ground beneath our feet – I say that all these things are but dreams and shadows: the shadows that hide the real world from our eyes.  There IS a real world, but it is beyond this glamour and this vision … I do not know whether any human being has ever lifted that veil …

“…This world of ours is pretty well girdled now with the telegraph wires and cables; thought, with something less than the speed of thought, flashes from sunrise to sunset, from north to south, across the floods and the desert places.  Suppose that an electrician of today were suddenly to perceive that he and his friends have merely been playing with pebbles and mistaking them for the foundations of the world;  suppose that such a man saw uttermost space lie open before the current, and words of men flash forth to the sun and beyond the sun into the systems beyond, and the voices of articulate-speaking men echo in the waste void that bounds our thought … 

“… it was a summer evening, and the valley looked much as it does now;  I stood here and saw before me the unutterable, the unthinkable gulf that yawns profound between two worlds, the world of matter and the world of the spirit;  I saw the great empty deep stretch dim before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from the earth to the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned.”

From The Great God Pan by Arthur Machen

The Great God Pan is one of Machen’s most powerful works, and is in its entirety, a tale of beauty and of horror.  Those whom the higher frequencies enter, who are not ripe enough or prepared, are blitzed by them, or suffer “awful, unspeakable elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant in human flesh.”   Pan is not just a pretty face:  it is according to what level of ignorance we project.  Pan vibrates through Gaia, and the atoms between the stars.   “Pan” means “Everything: pantheos“.  Pan is paradox … beyond our fence, outside and yet within the fields we know.  Pan is at the root of the seasons’ axis, the wild things of the elements … and Pan as the Mystery quickens, beckons and is beautiful.

The Archangel of planet Earth is Sandalphon;  he is full of Pan.  Dionysius is in Pan, and so is the grape.  And so is the right amount of fear, in the path of awe.

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Another very early drawing, when I was about four or five years old …

… and then a year or two later.  As a child, I am Pan’s priestess.  My dolls are Nature’s imagination, the flowers.

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Copy from Rafaello:  Archangel Rafael, the cosmic Intelligence, the healer of our intentions.

Another “dancing” sequence …

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This is a root-of-spine awareness, to practice the piano

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Dragon and Chick  1987

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Serpent and Soul

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Heracles cleans the Augean Stables – one of his 12 Labours.  He diverted the rivers Alpheus and Peneus from their courses, to wash out the muck

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Prehistory and Apples 1987

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Suspicious child, with grownup behaviours

Midwinter dancing with Pan 1988

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Midwinter dance with Pan 1988.  The small phallus is as winter seed tucked away

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Young king with pipe 1957

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Midwinter dancing with Pan – New Year 1988.  The dragon tail is history.

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Thomas 

Thomas in Provence – an illustration for a story by Catherine Harding, called “The Explorers of the Real World”.

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A drawing from life – Steven Isserlis & Friends rehearse Messiaen at the Wigmore Hall (1988).

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Pan is ambiguous.  Pan leads as much into the dark as into the light:  the potency from in between.  Here are Pan-impressions from my dreams in “The Watershed”:

Dreams 244, April 1976:  The Forest– “I dreamed last week of an orchard.  I think it grew on the slope of a hill, at the fringe of the forest.  The trees threw out beautiful branches, snakes of hostility towards me – in response.  The forest came alive, like the one in Bartok’s The Wooden Prince.  It was magic music, amazing me.  The fruit on the branches and the branches themselves, awoke with serpentine purpose in response to delicate etheric vibrations of mine.  The energy field of our interaction was a burst of silvery thorns in an aureole of colour.

“These trees and their limbs were hostile.  They all were sorcery.”

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Dreams 234, March 1976Episodes from “The Raincheck Dream” … “I am dreaming of this wood with my mother.  The woods near the sea cliffs just north of Gordonstoun are the same as these ones behind Teanninich where she spent her school holidays.  I have a strange new sensitivity.  It is not now she who sings Dark Brown is the River, but the wood itself.  The birds and the entire sound and life of these woods pulsate an extraordinary power like the waves of the sea.  The space between the trees quickens in my veins a chord so high and deep, none of its colours are known to any orchestra.  The illumination rocks and delights me, tremendous is the offering of its strange and secret pulse in stem, branch and song.  Should I tell her?  I decided not to.  Don’t dissipate these things.

“When I got home, I began to watch The Exorcist on TV.  I was scared, but I should see.  The Chinese neighbours upstairs kept switching channels, so I missed parts of them and had to make them switch it back on.  I sometimes shielded my eyes – this surprised me.

“There were massive, head-splitting explosions like cannon fire, or the trenches.  The noise is its own horror in upstairs passages: the brain.  This is the Devil’s sound, and I am one of his tunes.  But I shall use this voltage for something the Devil never heard of!  His speech is deeper than the forest, deeper than the deepest sea, but it has no note at all, it is NOT.  I know it.  Not the fools who believe in him, who run around in fear upstairs like me.  The sound blew out my memory.

“… Many nights, my inner work took, during all this, to unfold.  I held its evolution : it had a texture of quintessential equilibrium, like something shaped with hands.  Hands from the outer life hold and cherish.  Hands from within, touch or define an interplay of barometric pressures.  It pleased me.  It was delicate, yet strong and good.

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“There was a feeling, in these sequences of dreams, of the Sun’s fire.  It grows in a cauldron whose substance I cannot quite see. Time entered and gave it meaning.  Time with it brought feelings and images of something male, unknown and triumphing, a power or vividness I recognised, something outside or new to myself, which I welcomed.  The cockbird crowed.  I touched with it, stone in a secret place.  A mosaic of window panes fell away, and I lived now in light between the fragments of an archipelago, dancing on the sea.  Upon the crests of the waves came wild plumed horses to blow upon my making.

Jyotish deity, 1998

“Yet too intense an occult concentration may mask fear and emotional poverty.  I put it down, I left it, I went to have lunch.

“The thing in my absence maintained steerage.  When I returned to the cellar of the seas, I purchased with it my vision.  From the dawn a tribe of sea-lions drew chariots of fire, and the sun waxed until it filled the whole sky.  I welcomed.  And still it was held, this unknown thing, this flame, in the quiet equilibrium of my hands.

“Upon the potters wheel rises slow my city of Gathertegen, for my children to generate:  the wrong rotation, the wrong touch – vanity – it crumbles.

“Again and again, between snow white sheets whose melt is the ocean, the seed was taken, and it grew.  ‘Let God guide you.’  It widens and is shaped with hands, it is a fire which glows…(

(Guilt, grief and ships in the night,  a co-dependent catastrophe, impossible to heal – “the lines of our rails lay now in the sea to which he would not come”) …

“The sun rose a pulse of drums from over the sea.  And the cock crowed: ‘OSIBISA!  Criss cross rhythms which explode with happiness, here in the heart of Africa … the Dawn …’

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Welsh magick

Dreams 253, June 1976 – Primrose Light:  “I think these trees are pear-trees, small ones whose wiry branches are grafted and trained to stretch each side horizontally.  They grow in the garden at Manor Farm.  They carry small white leaves, delicate like butterflies.  They rustle as the wind sings.  The branches with these bridal leaves may claw the sky like hands, like the fingers of my own hand.

“It was the tree of my hand, my hand a tree that made scratches in the air.  A purity of inner space opened in the sky.  Yellow light or brilliance poured forth golden like rain or radiant, releasing the voice and appearance of GOD.

“It happened for Mr V too.  He shares with me the substance of joy, innocence, when he makes his branches into hooks and draws them over the sky.  It wept, it bled, it shone.  It transfigured all things.  Let the veil of heaven be drawn back …”

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Walk tall.  Walk with the tree.  It is our interior axis, the pole star:  alignment.

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All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/

My adventure invites fellow travellers.  I am a poet, an artist and a seer.  I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.

3 thoughts on “Dancing with Pan (2)

  1. dear Jane,
    your work – beyond comprehension and your drawings are stunning. You were obviously an artist in previous life and brought this gift with you. Stunning stunning art!
    thank you for posting.

  2. This and your previous post on Pan are both filled with wisdom that is far beyond my ken. But still I feel it deeply in my soul when I read your words. I have always connected with Pan and his energies – all of them from the erotic to the sublime and nature oriented, and even the ones that bring Panic! A beautiful treatise on the many ways that He is in us and travels with us thru our lives along with His alter egos and companions on the journey. I love your art work and the ways it gets into our souls and hearts with the innate skill of your drawings. Thank you for these excellent posts. I always learn from you and your work.
    Peace,
    Steve

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