—David Hine, “Strange Embrace”
MANDINGOHOOD
__________________
My dumpy, run-down, decaying mansion—was a Poe House of Usher-esque horror. It was an ink-drenched artwork in itself—without me and all the African artwork cramming every available space.
It isn't what you see that scares you, though—it's what you don't see. There’s a black and white nothingness in this mansion of mine that’s short of incredible—a fact obscured by candlelight and quivering shadows as I creep up the stairs. This gives the masks and carvings an over-shadowed and sometimes obscure look—then they jump out and scare the shit outta you.
The panels on the walls above my bed creak & moan—and along the hallways light & shadow is always finding a crooked balance between open space and closed. The whites slashing the thick blacks to ribbons—bringing every pictorial element into crystal-clear relief for just a second. And then darkness and obscurity once again.
It's difficult to live with this much shadow in a house—and having it turn out to be anything at all. But there’s this hidden savageness that slaps every single white area down into its perfect place— squeezing darkness, depth and weight into this composition without sacrificing anything. Except for one’s whitey pride, male honor and homo-hauteur.
There's nothing quite like the perfect dinge embrace of darkness at play here—the inky blackness brushing back against the light. Carving shadows onto the walls—as much as lighting them. The rough-hewn detailing and outlines perfectly evoking—the substance of the wooden idols that dominate my Mandingo collection.
These fear-masks here & there completely dominate everything—their placement hardly simply random tho. Rather each carved piece of African maleness— has been painstakingly placed to achieve with a masterful dark embrace all the space around it. And me as well—as I enter and pass thru its presence.
The V-shape depicted in so many of the virile male African Venus-torsos—points me away from clinging to every small bit of light available. The very presence of these Mandingo torsos is enough to make me faint—like all the rest of the near-collapsing shapes around me. Inevitably bringing Mandingo shadows—to this doomed mansion of mine.
Drowning deep in the depths of these dark panels and passageways—I feel helpless. Compared to the graceful bulk of these statues that lurch toward me—I’m nothing but a spastic on my return leg up the stairs. Their strange alignments and their Dr. Caligari angles—bringing them closer and closer. Until all depth disappears from my vision—and I’m left with my own expressionistic grotesque mask hauntingly looking back at me in the bedroom mirror.
The passageways, hallways and staircases would seem like a gothic horror story in most people’s mind—but for me it’s a progression from boring whitey normality. To human anguish and then into an alien whirl of images that finally swallows me whole. Leaving nothing—but my own implacable pockmarked existence disappearing into the wainscoting.
Mandingo dharma for me is a balancing act between dark and light, humanity and horror—coming from a space somewhere between control and loss of control. Mandingo dharma mirrors existence—embracing me during Zimbabwe zazen.
__________________
My dumpy, run-down, decaying mansion—was a Poe House of Usher-esque horror. It was an ink-drenched artwork in itself—without me and all the African artwork cramming every available space.
It isn't what you see that scares you, though—it's what you don't see. There’s a black and white nothingness in this mansion of mine that’s short of incredible—a fact obscured by candlelight and quivering shadows as I creep up the stairs. This gives the masks and carvings an over-shadowed and sometimes obscure look—then they jump out and scare the shit outta you.
The panels on the walls above my bed creak & moan—and along the hallways light & shadow is always finding a crooked balance between open space and closed. The whites slashing the thick blacks to ribbons—bringing every pictorial element into crystal-clear relief for just a second. And then darkness and obscurity once again.
It's difficult to live with this much shadow in a house—and having it turn out to be anything at all. But there’s this hidden savageness that slaps every single white area down into its perfect place— squeezing darkness, depth and weight into this composition without sacrificing anything. Except for one’s whitey pride, male honor and homo-hauteur.
There's nothing quite like the perfect dinge embrace of darkness at play here—the inky blackness brushing back against the light. Carving shadows onto the walls—as much as lighting them. The rough-hewn detailing and outlines perfectly evoking—the substance of the wooden idols that dominate my Mandingo collection.
These fear-masks here & there completely dominate everything—their placement hardly simply random tho. Rather each carved piece of African maleness— has been painstakingly placed to achieve with a masterful dark embrace all the space around it. And me as well—as I enter and pass thru its presence.
The V-shape depicted in so many of the virile male African Venus-torsos—points me away from clinging to every small bit of light available. The very presence of these Mandingo torsos is enough to make me faint—like all the rest of the near-collapsing shapes around me. Inevitably bringing Mandingo shadows—to this doomed mansion of mine.
Drowning deep in the depths of these dark panels and passageways—I feel helpless. Compared to the graceful bulk of these statues that lurch toward me—I’m nothing but a spastic on my return leg up the stairs. Their strange alignments and their Dr. Caligari angles—bringing them closer and closer. Until all depth disappears from my vision—and I’m left with my own expressionistic grotesque mask hauntingly looking back at me in the bedroom mirror.
The passageways, hallways and staircases would seem like a gothic horror story in most people’s mind—but for me it’s a progression from boring whitey normality. To human anguish and then into an alien whirl of images that finally swallows me whole. Leaving nothing—but my own implacable pockmarked existence disappearing into the wainscoting.
Mandingo dharma for me is a balancing act between dark and light, humanity and horror—coming from a space somewhere between control and loss of control. Mandingo dharma mirrors existence—embracing me during Zimbabwe zazen.
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