A New World, Part 3

Untitled (1985). Ball point pen on paper. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

Those entrenched in the corridors of power were shaken. A gentle transition to a new generation had begun to manifest itself politically. The streets calmed, further unnerving the intransigent elders. They were banking on the unrest to be avenue by which to ramp up the march to martial law. Now attuned to the wiles of their adversaries, the movement presented no purchase for a declaration of hostilities. As the tenuous calm spread over an election season, great masses lined up in cold, in rain, in blistering desert heat, to exercise the franchise. Slates were chosen, scoundrels deposed, fresh faces abounded.  The unconventional neophytes adopted conventional settings to rally their causes. Looking out over the assembled, the vitriol of past gatherings put on by the old guard went missing. The gentility of the wave of liberality and commonweal mimicked power and peace of the sea in a gentle breeze.

If this was to be different, it would have to stay this way, in a world where nothing ever stays the same. Nonetheless, somehow, the calm confidence coursing through the air made it seem possible.


Danny Grosso

A New World, Part 2

Untitled (2007). Ink on board. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

Even out in the sticks, where the commotion was muted by nature’s own symphony, heads were turning. Up on the rolling dunes, those becoming aware ascended the promontory and afforded themselves a new vista. Something so old and staid, rarely affected by change, was moving, out there, somewhere.

In the skies above the harlequin patchwork of shadows, the light begins to guild. Another sun appears, an illusion perhaps, but another star is expected, somewhere in time. For now, the roiling clouds filter the light into a glittering dazzle.

-Danny Grosso




A New World, Part 1

Campione (1986). Charcoal on Board. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

Fanfares and flags unfurled with the new light of a new day. Those listening could hear the echoes of victory foretold; those unattuned to such sorcery simply sampled the sweet music of joy. Voices lifted, choruses swelled. Someone danced across the grand avenue, another joined in. This was how the tide was turned; one action, joined by another, and another, and on. A gathering of power. A commonweal of good will put to action.

Those there drank the clearing like manna, as if the blue tide of it in the sky would ebb, but the departure of darkness seemed, somehow, permanent. Something had changed about the relationship between the combatants. It was as if the acceptance of a preternatural ebb and flow of dominance had ended.

Light still tarries with its rival. It needs to be vigilant within the dynamic of the natural order. Dark clouds can gather on the horizon. Night falls. The light respects all of this, but it may never again long for the false promises of evening’s embrace.

Danny Grosso