Tag: Environmental

Fine Art Sales

Providentia ~ A True Story, as yet Unfolding…

Grand Providentia United

Rising above the traditionally non-functional approach to visual artwork, the creation story of Providentia is unique in that this bronze sculpture was intentionally channeled and manifested into this time and space to serve as a functional conscious energy device. Throughout my life as an artist, I have always sensed that the artwork I envision and bring into being is, in a way, just passing through me. It’s as if the work is already there and I just need to manifest it conceptually and materially. Providentia, is without doubt the most powerful work of art that I have ever channeled into existence. I feel as though the unrealized art object was there waiting patiently for me to express it and usher it into reality. The creation itself was merely on standby until I was strong enough to draw the artwork through and materialize it. To many people, the previous statement might sound contrived or even pretentious, but I must insist that this is indeed what it feels like when I manifest a work of art.

Originally, Providentia was titled “American Dream Catcher – Peace, Power, Love & Riches”, but once the sculpture was cast in bronze, I decided that it needed a more dignified title to match the innate beauty of its form. I began to see Providentia as being an embodiment of male/female spiritual energy rather than just an ordinary art object.

Physical Properties of Providentia

Providentia – Bronze casting mounted on a black marble base. Limited Edition: 1/5

The partial orb (Low Frequency Reflector) in the bottom section is chrome-plated bronze. The fluted globe (Containment Reservoir) in the upper section rotates via the hand operated spindle at the top of the device.

Dimensions: 39″ H x 16″ W x 16″ D ~ Weight: 100 lbs.

Approximate time involved: 420 hours from concept to completion.

Price: $25,000.00

Note: This is an original sculpture by Scott Joseph Moore. Ordinarily, the sculptor of an original model (using their preferred materials), brings the artwork to a bronze foundry to be molded, cast and finished (patina) by the foundry technicians. In the case of Providentia and the other bronzes I’ll be featuring on this blog, I performed at least 75% of the work involved. There are specific steps during the bronze casting process that are best performed by a team, such as the pouring of the molten metal, but even in that regard, I was part of the team that poured all of the bronzes I’ll feature here. Having more than 15 years of experience in the bronze sculpture industry and having specialized in metal finishing and patina application, I can testify with complete transparency that the bronze work involved with materializing Providentia is of my own creation. I applied the poly-chromatic patina on Providentia over the course of two 10-hour days (20 hours).

There was an abundance of conscious intention and purposeful execution involved in the creation of Providentia. The separate design elements featured in this photo; each have their own function and are also integral parts of the whole “Harmonic Dream Conservatory”.

Providentia ~ A Conscious Energy Transmitter, Receiver and Reservoir

Included with the sale of Providentia 1/5, will be a custom wood pedestal (painted in the color of your choice) and a classic bronze “Personal Dream Realization Device” so you can carry the power of Providentia with you, wherever your intentional journey takes you.

If you are interested in purchasing Providentia 1/5, or any other artwork featured on this site, please visit the Donate*Contact page here on the “Grand Providentia United” blog page for contact information. Serious inquiries only, please. Thank you for visiting!

Head Tales

Casting Dark Shadows #1

Grand Providentia United

Chapter 1

~ Black Dogma ~

As a boy I often wondered exactly how dark the color black could get. I also wondered about the brightest white, just not as often. While being forced to sit on a metal chair at a cafeteria table in Catechism class, I made drawings of demons with a #2 pencil. Totally dissatisfied with the results of my creative efforts, I wondered where I could get the blackest pencil on earth. I imagined myself making a deal with the devil to get the blackest pencil, and once he had forked it over, I’d ask him to please sit still so I could capture his unholy likeness in my current cartoon style. I never did get the opportunity to cut a deal with the Master of Demons back then, and years later when I finally did, I’d already learned just how dark the blackest black was, so bargaining for a magic pencil no longer seemed relevant or appropriate. I’d come to know that the blackest black inhabits a place of no coming back, or if you do come back, you always bring some of the black back with you. Your shadow gets darker, your life-light gets dimmer and your chances of achieving sainthood grow slimmer. Absolute black is a living organism. It resides in the place where night terrors gnash their teeth and shriek their fury. It holds its rightful place within the infinite span of our cosmos at the gateway of every sucking black hole in the Universe. Now I’m left wondering whether every black hole in space might lead to the same Catholic Hell. Eternal damnation becomes a serious consideration when you’re raised to fear God, Satan, and fire. Isn’t it interesting though, that a fiery hell on earth seems more and more plausible when you factor in the onset of global climate change? I can’t quite remember – Is digression one of the seven deadly sins? If so, you can add it to my lifelong list of transgressions so I can atone for it later. Great balls of lightning, I must get back to the point! This narrative is not meant to be funny or fictitious, or even an attempt to entertain. It is a grave warning. It’s a metaphorical fable about what might happen to you, if you dare to go looking for the source of absolute black.

“Unwound”

I’m still sifting through the finer details (i.e., the charcoaled remains of my journey to hell’s gateway) in an attempt to find reason, or at least some semblance of rationale behind my decision to follow Darkness to its source. A central factor in my choice to set forth on a fool’s quest to find the origins of evil, was my premature introduction to the story of Jesus Christ. Like most of my childhood friends, I deeply appreciated my Catholic upbringing, on one day each year – December 25th. But when it came to Sunday morning masses and Catechism classes, I thought the toys and candies of Christmas fell short of sufficient payment, especially when I took into account the yearly quota of lost playtime hours invested. Halloween, on the other hand, asked for no penance or devotion, seeking only a one-night stand of some good old-fashioned gluttony and a propensity to play pranks on unwary adults. And at least the inventors of Halloween were forthright about its roots being firmly grounded in fear and morbidity. Halloween was, and is still, one of my favorite holidays. But the world doesn’t offer a religion based on Halloween’s moralistic principles, and even if it did, I’m sure my mother wouldn’t have approved. So, it’s back to Saints Peter and Paul church and my misguided interpretation of the story of Jesus Christ.

This is the first chapter in the first book of a trilogy I’ll be writing. The three books will be based on the true story of my lifetime (as yet unfolding…). Please feel free to criticize. But do be advised that I still have connections in the Kingdom of Absolute Black!

Head Tales

Casting Dark Shadows #2

Grand Providentia United

Chapter 2

~ Wicked Babies ~

Jesus said, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they are doing.” Luke 23:34

And maybe the Almighty Father did forgive them, but I didn’t. Even as an eight-year-old boy, I was convinced that they knew what they were doing, and they did it anyway. The life story of Jesus Christ that I was taught during those many hours of indoctrination into the Catholic religion, stirred in me an enormous internal conflict. I’m sure the reaction I had to the story is fairly common among children when they learn how Jesus’ life ended. However, when I began to internalize the teachings, I am certain that I was too young to understand that the “they” in Luke’s passage did not equate to ‘we’ in my life story. In a single misstep – a naive misinterpretation – I accepted an overwhelming amount of guilt and a huge burden to make recompense for the unspeakable atrocity we committed in the crucifixion of Christ. I embraced the idea that, ‘We knew exactly what we were doing, and we did it anyway’. Here was this miraculous human being who taught love and forgiveness, healed his brothers and sisters, openly accepted sinners and saints alike, and we decided he should be tortured and killed for daring to be different from the rest of us. I became secretly enraged by all of this. I focused the magnitude of that rage inward. It’s so strange to think that I identified more with the teachings of Jesus than I did with the teachings of my grade-school teachers, and because of that, I nearly destroyed my capacity to identify with either school of thought. This is when I started to wonder about the blackest black.

The troublesome thing about childhood wonder – it can lead you a long way down a path in one direction or another, and due to inexperience, you might arrive at a place of new understanding, a place where you’re no longer wondering about that specific thing, but you find yourself hopelessly lost about every other thing. I’ve learned that the distance between absolute black and the brightest white is relative to the number of gradations on a gray scale your current senses are able to perceive. Everything comes down to life experience. When I first began wondering about the blackest black, and when I started making my plans to challenge the unholiest evil, I was grossly inexperienced. Could I have used the word innocent here, instead of inexperienced? Absolutely not. There exists a similar ‘gray scale’ between innocence and guilt that I’m not ready to explore at this point in the story, and besides, one of the very first lessons I learned in catechism was that we humans are all guilty at birth. Original sin exempts us from innocence. If there is a completely neutral gray, a tone that is precisely centered between the blackest black and the purest white, and we insert the equivalent of that gray on the scale between guilt and innocence, the church teaches that we are already closer to guilt than we are to innocence, even at the moment of birth. It’s a bit of dogma that I’ve never been able to come to terms with. It seems unfair that the human race will never be free from original sin – and furthermore, never be eligible for a complete collective redemption. But I guess that’s where the story of Jesus Christ intersects with the story that I’m telling you now.

Down the Tube

The story of Jesus sparked in me a black/white obsession, but there were many other stories that fueled it into an internal raging inferno. So many stories of heroic avengers doing the right things, following the right paths, and coming out clean and righteous on the other side of their trials and tribulations. From the Holy Bible there was the story of David and Goliath, from contemporary literature there was Frodo Baggins from the Shire, and from Hollywood there was Andy Dufresne from the Shawshank State Penitentiary. I was disappointed in God’s failure to intercede on our behalf and infuriated with the devil for leading us so far astray. I vowed to avenge Jesus of Nazareth and every other human being that had ever been bullied, tortured, maimed or destroyed at the behest of Satan and his horde of demons. I would willfully confront the Prince of Darkness and demand full accountability. A disobedient speck of stardust countering the darkest forces of the Universe.

We all have our stories to tell, and I’m committed to telling you this one. If you appreciate the entertainment, please consider leaving a tip in the jar on the Donate*Contact page. Every small donation will help towards getting me settled into Savannah and ready for classes starting on September 11th. Thank you for your consideration!

Head Tales

Casting Dark Shadows #3

Grand Providentia United

Chapter 3

~ Curiosity Could Kill the Kid ~

When the pendulum swings toward angst, I am in the pit. To ride the pendulum back out of the pit, I must summon forth and exercise heartfelt serenity. When I was a child, I found it almost effortless to initiate, fluctuate, and regulate my spiritual energies, largely because it seemed to occur naturally. I would be completely bummed out in one minute and then entirely elated in the next. I was thrilled when we kids found a long-forgotten railroad bridge in the woods across the street from my house. It had deteriorated to the point that its wooden cross beams were seemingly only held together by the corroded steel girders and rusty tracks the workers had so long ago spiked into them. The trestle over the river had a short span and an even shorter height – its rails were perhaps only twenty feet above the surface of the shallow flow. Although there were some jagged piles of dangerous looking debris down below the span, crossing it was probably not a matter of life and death. But death was certainly not out of the question either. At least that’s the argument my dad would have used to scare me straight if he found out I was crossing that rotted bridge. At the age of seven, with three of my best friends cheering me on, I tiptoed carefully, and deliberately, over the span from the near to the far shore. As I remember it, my friends all chickened out that first time, meaning I had to return to the near shore almost immediately so we could stay together and seek out other brave new worlds and daredevil challenges until darkness fell. While the fear was definitely real in the moments of crossing the bridge, it was the recurring nightmares I had as a result of the crossings that turned out to be the most terrifying part of the experience. As the term recurring suggests, the dream was always the same – a Tyrannosaurus Rex chases me to the rickety hulk of the train trestle – for reasons unclear, the beast’s shadow is always scarier than its blood slathered jowls – I cross the bridge as if in a dream (I was), leaping expertly from tie to tie and avoiding the gaping black holes in its steel-strapped wooden ribcage – when I stick a solid landing on the other side, I look down, and there on the burnt coal ground of the far shore I find a cherry flavored Pixie Stick, unopened – I pick it up and start to pour the sugary contents into my mouth with nary a care about, or memory of, the dinosaur’s monstrous shadow or the fact that I’d even been having a nightmare. I suppose that’s how easily the pendulum swings when you’re just a kid.

Within a few years of that ‘First Great Trestle Crossing’, the local adults figured out how dangerous it was to keep the skeletal remains of that bridge in place. I reckon the Hope Mill property owner recognized the potential financial liability the dilapidated trestle represented, so he made it disappear. We children claimed to be upset about its disappearance, but deep down inside I think we were all relieved to some extent because we knew we would never be dared to cross it again. Before long, we had collectively dragged a few of the old timbers that the demolition crew had left behind to make our own bridge, this one being much closer to the river’s surface. For me, the deeper significance of the bridge crossing was not in the physical danger it posed, but in the spiritual and mental challenge it represented. I remember it as the first time I tempted fate – the first time I challenged the devil to strike me down if that was his big plan. I see now that his plans were significantly bigger than I could have imagined back then. So, the devil laughed openly at my baby steps, and it’s likely God could see that he’d soon have his hands full trying to keep this young fool from wandering too far into the absolute black. In my understanding, God is always smiling though. The Great I Am bears an embarrassment born of the haplessness of our willful ways, and is thoroughly amused by us, just the same.

The Arkwright Bridge (built in 1888) is a couple miles downriver from the trestle in this story. Although it was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1978, it will likely be one of the next disappearing bridges in rural Rhode Island. The bridge was closed to automobiles in 2011 and then closed to foot traffic in 2019, after the death of a local youth who was diving off the bridge with friends. (Wikipedia)

If I could have seen the recklessness of my actions early on, perhaps I might have saved myself a decade of increasingly painful hardship. But as the devil has been purported to say, “Where’s the fun in that?” Besides, if I hadn’t gone searching for the devil’s lair, I wouldn’t have this wonderful story to share with you all. Lucky for you, I am one that needs to learn the hard way. As a child I tended to rise to the challenge again and again, even if it meant sacrificing every last shred of self-preservation and esteem I could muster. I was intent on finding the source of absolute black, and when I did, I would start to beat the demons back down inside of it. When the supreme leaders of both the black and the white forces heard of my plans, all of the Universe enjoyed a great big belly laugh.

Head Tales

Casting Dark Shadows #4

Grand Providentia United

Chapter 4

~ Attracting Ghoul Friends ~

For me, the payoff of a nightmare almost always comes in the moment of waking up. Especially if I wake to birdsong and sunshine. I can usually shake off even the most diabolical of night frights quickly in the light of day. But when it’s too early to get up and I know I’ll be going back down for more of the same, all I can really do is try to appreciate the entertainment value of my frightful nocturnal imaginings. There is a thrilling rush of adrenaline that comes when I awaken from a mind-bending vision of abject horror. When I was young, I gradually became addicted to that rush. Being hooked on fear, I would look forward to the next nightmare, hoping only that it would be more terrifying than the last. I was rarely disappointed. Eventually, my mind created a dream routine that would ease me out of the darkest reaches without the shock of being physically jolted into a sitting position in my real-world bed. The routine soon became my favorite part of every scary dreamscape escape. I offer up another recurring nightmare from early childhood to fill you in on the devilish details of the routine.

I find myself standing next to an antique potbelly woodstove that my mother is trying to light up – it’s a gloomy little room, cold and damp – foggy outside and foggy inside. Is it fog, smoke, or an army of ghosts filling this place? – mom is cursing – the fire won’t start – “Stay here Scott, I’m going to get some firewood.” – the room suddenly feels fragile, like a thin-skinned tent – I follow my mother to the screen door and latch it with an equally fragile hasp – as I’m backing away from the door, it dawns on me that I am no safer inside of this wicked crate than I would be outside of it – I know what’s coming – I’m powerless to stop it – my mom comes screeching back to the door with superhuman speed, crazy sharp claws, cruel looking fangs, and hair sticking straight out in all directions – it isn’t my mother, it’s an apocalyptic lunatic. Her tortured howl is maddening – I know the screen won’t hold for more than a second – I know that a second is all I need – my ritual of escape takes the lead and the relief is immediate – I curl into a ball and fly backwards through the air – spinning around, rolling forward and taking control – flying, rolling, out of the darkness and towards my house – bursting through the back door at full speed – up the narrow stair case and down the hall – in the instant that I land in my bed, I’m awake, and I know that I’m safe. Once again, I had left the shock of the night terror where I thought it belonged, deep down inside. What I failed to realize is that the depths would keep getting deeper to accommodate for the growing horde of monsters I was routinely breeding and feeding with my swiftly accumulating fears.

“Dream Wand”
acrylic on carved wood over cricket cage.

The fight was a mismatch from the very start. These demons were in an entirely different weight class than me. Anyone with a modicum of sense would surely have told me so. But I never told anyone about my plans to confront the blackness, except for the God within me, and I was fairly confident God would always have my back. If not, I thought, ‘How in the hell do I keep making it back to my bed in the morning?’

In the youngest years of my life, the daytime hours were filled with adventure, exploration and wonder. I would spend as many hours as I was allowed to, playing in the tattered woodland areas around town, wading through the rivers and runoffs, digging in the dirt for worms and antique bottles, and crawling through the rainwater drainage pipes beneath both Mill and Main Streets. When mom and dad decided I was old enough to sleep in a tent in our backyard, the adventures often continued well past the witching hour. Slinking through Hope in the darkness was a lot less scary when your friends were there with you, so usually the tent in our backyard was filled with as many friends as the tarpaulin floor could accommodate. As I recall, my older brother and I would argue over who’s turn it was to sleep out in the tent on any given night, but we soon realized that the overflow could always sleep on the ground underneath the stars. At one point we must have had upwards of fifteen wayward boys, and sometimes one wayward girl, marauding through the streets of Hope Village under the dark cloak of night.