"Colors of Art" – May 5th, 2002

The Akashic Library shimmered with quiet light, its portals glowing faintly as though alive with anticipation. Peter Fae stood before one, his golden cloak rippling softly as the scene within took shape. It was a memory of New York City in the spring of 2002. The view shifted, showing a cavernous artist’s loft in Brooklyn—a place alive with raw creativity, its floors scattered with paint cans, unfinished sculptures, and canvases splashed with bold colors.

Beside him, Calliope leaned forward, her dark blue cloak catching the portal’s silvery light. She glanced at Peter, her quill poised over a scroll. “This,” she said softly, “is where you began your investigation into the colors of art, isn’t it? Into the architecture beneath creativity itself.”

Peter nodded, his gaze fixed on the portal. “Yes. It was an elemental time for me. Art was one of the only things that felt remotely coherent amidst the chaos of my senses. But even then, I could feel there was more to it than paint on canvas or movement in dance. There was something deeper—a geometry, a structure beneath the forms. I was obsessed with finding it, with understanding what lay beneath the surface.”

Within the portal, a younger Peter stood near a tall window, the industrial Brooklyn skyline spread out behind him. His camera was slung around his neck, and he was speaking animatedly to James Vogel, whose presence carried an effortless gravitas. Vogel, a sculptor and fine artist of exceptional skill, listened with quiet intensity, his hands smeared with paint from a nearby canvas.

“Vogel was a huge inspiration to me,” Peter said, his voice threaded with nostalgia. “He was so grounded in his craft, so precise in his execution. A sculptor, a painter, an artist of excellence. He understood the material world in a way I couldn’t, and yet, he also carried this sense of the mystical. Through him, I started to see art as more than just expression—it was a language, a way of shaping the energies of the world.”

Calliope’s quill scratched softly against her parchment. “You’ve spoken before about your sense of the colors beneath the arts,” she said. “What was it you were perceiving?”

Peter turned toward her, his expression thoughtful. “It’s hard to describe. It wasn’t just colors, not in the usual sense. It was as if each piece of art, each medium, carried a vibrational signature—a hue of consciousness, a shape of energy. Paintings, sculptures, music, dance—they weren’t separate from the artist. They were extensions of the energies within them, the subtle geometries of their emotions and ideas made manifest. I called it ‘chromatic acuity,’ the ability to sense the colors of sound and feeling that lay beneath the forms.”

The Akashic Library shimmered with soft, eternal light as Peter Fae and Calliope stood before another portal, its rippling surface revealing a shifting view of New York City in the spring of 2002. This time, the scene showed Peter alone, walking through the bustling streets, his movements steady but his expression distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“The colors of art,” Peter said quietly, his gaze fixed on the memory. “That’s what I called it, though it was more than colors. It was… a presence, a vibration I could feel within the pieces I encountered. Each one had its own resonance, a kind of telepathic echo that wasn’t confined to the artwork itself. It existed within the piece and yet somehow outside it, in a space that was in-between, a place within the Akasha.”

Calliope glanced at him, her dark eyes sharp with interest as her quill moved fluidly over the parchment. “You felt these vibrations as if they were objects?” she asked.

Peter nodded. “Yes. Objects in space, but not in the usual sense. They were tangible to me, but not something you could touch or see. It was as if each piece of art held a fragment of a greater pattern—a shape, a geometry that belonged to a deeper realm of consciousness. Walking through the streets of New York, visiting galleries and museums, I was trying to decipher those shapes. To understand why I felt them so strongly.”

In the portal, younger Peter moved through a crowded art gallery, his camera slung across his chest as his eyes scanned the walls. Paintings of bold, chaotic strokes hung beside serene, minimalist pieces. Sculptures rose from pedestals, their forms twisting and flowing, almost alive.

“There were times,” Peter continued, “when I would stand in front of a painting or a sculpture and feel… overwhelmed. Not by the technique or the subject matter, but by something deeper. It was as if the art was speaking directly to me, not in words but in sensations. These impressions would bloom inside me, filling my mind with shapes and colors that didn’t quite make sense but demanded my attention.”

Calliope’s quill paused mid-stroke as she looked back at him. “And what did you do with those impressions?”

“I tried to capture them,” Peter said. “To ground them somehow. I’d take photos of the pieces, sketch the sensations I was feeling, write notes about the emotional gravities they seemed to carry. But it was like chasing shadows—every time I thought I understood, the meaning would shift, slipping through my fingers. It was maddening, but I couldn’t stop. I needed to know what these vibrations were, why they resonated so strongly with me.”

The portal shifted, showing Peter stepping into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The vast halls stretched around him, filled with statues, ancient relics, and paintings that seemed to glow faintly under the museum’s careful lighting. He moved slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze lingering on each piece as if searching for something invisible.

“There was one moment,” Peter said, his voice soft with recollection, “when I stood in front of a sculpture—a figure carved from marble, its form impossibly delicate and lifelike. The sensation was immediate. It wasn’t just beauty I felt; it was a pull, a gravity that seemed to extend from the statue into the space around it, and into me. It was as though the piece was alive, not in the sense of movement, but in its essence. Its energy reached into that in-between space I kept sensing, and for a moment, I felt like I could touch it.”

Calliope tilted her head, her quill resuming its movement. “Did it frighten you?”

Peter smiled faintly. “Not exactly. It confused me more than anything. I didn’t understand why I could feel these things when no one else seemed to. And I didn’t know how to talk about it. How do you explain to someone that you can feel the ‘color’ of a sculpture’s energy, or that paintings seem to hum with a vibrational language you can almost—but not quite—understand?”

The portal shifted again, this time showing Peter wandering through a smaller, more intimate space—a personal presentation in a Brooklyn loft. Canvases leaned against walls, their surfaces thick with paint and raw emotion. Peter stood before one piece, his camera raised, capturing the way the light played off the texture of the brushstrokes.

“There was a particular painting,” Peter said, gesturing toward the image in the portal. “It was dark, almost chaotic, but there was a thread of gold running through it, like a vein of light cutting through the shadows. I remember standing there, staring at it, and feeling the resonance of that gold thread. It wasn’t just paint—it was a frequency, a note that felt like it was vibrating in my chest. It spoke of hope, of beauty emerging from pain. I knew the artist had felt it too, even if they didn’t realize it.”

Calliope’s gaze softened as she looked back at him. “So, the colors weren’t just in the art,” she said. “They were in the emotions, the stories, the energies the artist poured into their work.”

Peter nodded. “Exactly. The art wasn’t just a thing—it was a vessel, a carrier of the energies within the artist. I began to see that art, in all its forms, was an expression of something deeper—a language of the soul, written in colors and shapes that most people couldn’t see. But I could feel it. I could sense the architecture beneath the art, the subtle geometries of consciousness that gave the forms their power.”

The portal dimmed, its light fading as the memory dissolved into the soft glow of the Library. Calliope closed her notebook, her expression thoughtful. “And yet, it sounds like you were only beginning to understand,” she said.

They turned from the portal, the hum of the Library surrounding them like the resonance of an unstruck chord, waiting to be heard.

In the portal, Peter gestured to the window, speaking to Vogel with animated hands. Vogel nodded, considering his words, before responding with calm precision. Together, they looked at a reflection in the glass—a faint overlay of the interior loft superimposed on the Brooklyn skyline beyond.

“That moment at the window,” Peter said, his voice softening. “It was when I first began to articulate what I was sensing. I told Vogel, ‘It’s like a house. Without a proper foundation, the house cannot stand. These pieces—these paintings, sculptures, dances—they’re made of energy. And that energy has to be arranged in a certain way for them to exist.’ He understood, I think, even if I didn’t fully.”

Calliope tilted her head, her quill pausing mid-stroke. “What did you mean by that? That energy had to be arranged?”

Peter’s golden cloak shimmered faintly as he spoke. “I was starting to see it then, though I didn’t have the clarity I do now. Art wasn’t just an act of creation—it was a process of aligning energies, of shaping the intangible into form. There was a geometry to it, a language beneath the language. And through Vogel’s art, through our conversations as we wandered the streets of New York, I started to piece it together. He helped me realize that what I was feeling wasn’t madness—it was a glimpse of something real, something profound.”

The scene in the portal shifted, showing Peter holding his camera as he stood near a half-finished sculpture in the loft. The sculpture seemed almost alive, its curves and angles echoing something organic, primal. He raised the camera, capturing an image of the reflection in the window—a layered portrait of the loft’s interior, the city outside, and the faint, ghostly imprint of Peter himself.

“That photo,” Peter said, gesturing to the image within the portal. “It was my attempt to capture what I was feeling—the layers of reality, the windows within windows. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the seed of an idea, a way of documenting the worlds within the world. It was my way of saying, ‘There’s something here. Something worth exploring.’”

Calliope’s quill resumed its steady movement, her eyes alight with understanding. “So, art became your foundation,” she said. “A way to make sense of the chaos.”

Peter nodded. “Exactly. The arts provided a structure, a framework. It wasn’t perfect—it couldn’t completely ground me—but it gave me something to hold onto. In the midst of the overwhelm, the kinetic sculptures of colored sound that were my constant reality, art was a bridge. A way to navigate the incoherence.”

The portal dimmed slightly, its light softening as the memory began to fade. Calliope looked up from her notes, her expression thoughtful. “And yet, it was only the beginning,” she said. “The start of a lifelong quest to understand the colors beneath creation.”

Peter smiled faintly, his gaze distant. “Yes. It’s a quest that continues to this day. I’ve come to see that the art of the self—the energies within us—is the foundation for everything. We are the vessels for our creations, and the shapes and colors of our souls are reflected in the worlds we build.”

They stepped away from the portal, their footsteps echoing softly in the vast, starlit expanse of the Library. Calliope glanced at Peter, her quill poised to begin again. “So,” she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Where shall we go next?”

Peter’s eyes glimmered with the light of infinite stories waiting to be told. “Wherever the colors take us,” he said, and together, they walked on.

"The Colors of Art"

As an artist in New York city I was fascinated by the chroma.  By the hues of vibration that lay beneath the mediums of the arts.  I strove to understand the architecture that lay beneath the various mediums, the shape and texture of the medium of consciousness that was the true color of the Creation.

There was a parallel between the textures i felt in the storybooks and the media and that of the people I was encountering, a constant energy that matched how they saw themselves and the myth they embodied in the world.

It was more than a declaration of ego. There was a hue beneath the human. A color beneath the consciousness that was the same in the written story and the living myth. It was the color of the sound.

It was an elemental time. A place made of colors and textures, of hammerings and harmonies that never stopped.

There were colors beneath the colors. Shapes beneath the shapes that held them together. There was a constant there beneath all the mediums, as if the expressions of painting, drawing, music, dance all other forms were the expression of something else. Something deeper and more constant than the shifting forms.

It wasn't a blatant thing, and I did not have the clarity I have now or the ability to articulate it clearly. Nonetheless, there was something there, something that nagged at my senses. The art within the art.

The phrase I used was "chromatic acuity", implying there needed to be a certain sense of clarity into the colors of sound that made up the world.

As an artist in New York city I was fascinated by the chroma. By the hues of vibration that lay beneath the mediums of the arts. I strove to understand the architecture that lay beneath the various mediums, the shape and texture of the medium of consciousness that was the true color of the Creation.

It was, to put it simply, the architecture beneath the art. The language beneath the language.

There was a geometry to it. A form that supported the forms.

I remember standing in the Tillary apartment with Vogel whom I admired greatly for his artistic excellence. "It's like a house" I told him. "Without a proper foundation, the house cannot stand. These pieces, these paintings and sculptures, these dances, they are made of energy, and that energy has to be arranged in a certain way in order for them to exist."

In retrospect, I see that I was seeing a more primal form of form itself, feeling a sense of some spatial and subtle geometry which existed within the mind and the body far before it expressed itself in the strokes of paint upon the wall.

Yet were we not the vessel for our art? Was it not the energies inside of myself that were changing, bringing me across hundreds of worlds?

What was the art of the self, I wondered. If we were all made of such flickering colors, what was their relationship to the way we saw the world? How could I use that to hold onto my powers and make sense of the world?

I could feel her, the deva of the city, and in her presence a kind of overlay, a blend of shifting colors and textures that lay beneath the surface of the land

Yet while there was magic there was madness, my mind a tumultuous storm of fierce emotions and confusions, of bouts of clarity and sensual exploration.

There was a moment at an art loft in Brooklyn where i'd shot a photo of a reflection inside of a window, considering it a portrait of the energies that I was feeling in the space. While it was simply the seed of an idea, the concept was clear, there was a window to the worlds within the world, and I would find a way to share that with the worlds.

We had arrived at an artist's loft space in industrial brooklyn, one of those vast open areas filled with sweat, paintcans and the textures of dreams. I had been dancing and wandering about, relishing the energies around me when the field shifted, and I looked out a window within a window into another world.