25/11/25 Aisle Reverie – Not Alive Yet
There’s a photograph Lynn Goldsmith took of Bill Evans in 1980.
He’s sitting at a black upright piano: one hand resting on the lid, the other tracing notes on a staff. Around him—loose sheets, worn notebooks, a gentle kind of chaos. If I didn’t know who he was, I might mistake him for a laborer. Instead, he’s trying to grasp the invisible.
There’s something universal in that posture: the total focus of someone dissolving into the creative act, no longer an individual but pure presence. Evans seems suspended in a boundless instant, belonging neither to the past nor the future—a universe forming in real time.
Because the future and the past don’t really exist.
Only the present breathes, like a living body.
Everything else—memories, desires, expectations—is a mirage of the mind.
And yet, even in the present, something escapes us. A part of reality lives beyond the visible, in a territory science can’t fully reach. Fragments that resist explanation—revealing a deeper truth in the act of resisting.
These are the sets that Not Alive Yet paints:
a therapeutic dive into the subconscious, where rewriting inner narratives means truly inhabiting the moment—not what was, not what will be.
Finding comfort in the shared silence of unspoken truths.
And then—maybe—dancing naked on your neighbor’s bed, simply because the moment asks for it.
What you’ll feel is the breath of the walls around you—not witnesses of passing time, but living accomplices of the present, the only place where anything truly exists.
