Creation begins from an outward gesture of an artist’s arm: a movement that follows the intelligence of the wind, the aesthetic of leaves in mid-flight.
Sometimes, when we are lucky, we witness this gesture flowing out of wonder, out of a curious strain of delight. Akat is such an instance. Here, swatches of morning are cut before our eyes. Ash and spice join in dances of gather and release.
Wildflowers figure prominently in this festival of texture and curlicue. Also in attendance are the remainders of civilization: scraps of magazines, the jangle of keys. Like the ruins of cars and coliseums, these have been overrun and assimilated by a greater wisdom, a more expansive joy.
Then, as if after an outpour, Akat discloses nightscapes of cricket-love and frog-song. We trace the nimble constellations of fireflies and discover, perhaps in the middle of abandon, an unmistakable contagion of generosity.