Magic ends by quitting the child’s imagination.

About

Tye isn’t just a poet, nor painter, nor linguist, nor outdoorsman. Simply put, he’s versatile–never confining his creativity to one practice; it’s not exactly clear if that’s on-purpose or some “deficit” etc etc. However, and despite his infrequent “take-ups,” there’s a quality that he’ll never put-down… fervor. Enigmatic enough, creative enough, even sloppy enough his work isn’t alone the core of his being, but rather the core of his being extends to those artistic endeavors perchance. That must be something that belongs to only a different kind of artist; or it must be something that is excluded from the unoriginal/non-artist.

Nevertheless, his work doesn’t exclude–and, more importantly he doesn’t intend any exclusion. To him, his work, the real work, could never be too good or too bad for anyone. And to subject himself to one class of work is redundant in itself. I guess, then, he is after all none of those aforementioned labels, but an embodiment of what is usually described as “lacking direction.” There, Tye is eternally renewed in a direction.