The Confusion Of Empty Paintings.

p1010125.jpgI drew a window upon the wall and tried to look through it. All I saw was a reflection of my face stuck some place in time. I drew another window on another wall and all I could see was a sea which was a lexicon of blueness. On the floor I drew another window through which all I saw was a multiplication of lips all reaching out to me for a kiss. I sat on the side of my bed and watched my feet turn into roots which stretched themselves all the way beneath the earths crust. I have been confused, not knowing who or what I am. My confusion seems to be ink and the world is paper upon which I write poems which remain unread. The world is at war in a culture not my own and I am stuck in my room drawing windows on walls and floors through which I see dreams about places that I will never be. My motivation is empty of any steam and the only goal I uphold is to live another day. What will become of me when the lips, the sea, the ink and the reflections of my face all start to become a city in which no one inhabits and no sounds are heard? I must sleep now because my head is becoming heavy and there is still much work to do.


  1. A little bit more depressing than the nostalgic “hooker in a tree” story. I like your art, but considering your style has a very abstract feel I’m interested in knowing if you create knowing the viewer will project meaning onto the object or if the object contains the inherent metaphors and similes of your prose.

  2. Yes, I have a tendency to get melancholic at times. It usually happens after I go to the market. I just hope that the meaning that the viewer projects onto my art brings them pleasure.

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