Awakening
In art I always find myself chasing something.
I relentlessly and irrationally pursue that which reveals itself in pieces, that which taunts and seduces me. The pursuit is never complete. It is a lasting cycle spinning around us and through us. When it comes for me, it comes for me with colour ten times rounder than the colour of wine, smell, ten times the familiarity of a jersey with your lover in it, sound, ten times more than the panting of life, blowing in an ear and feeling, ten times the electric pulse of hormone in a vein.
It spins. It totally ruptures me until the point where I am faced with my own insides, confused about the frailty of being.
I dry my body in rose and in steam. Bacon’s fleshy pinks are us: we are carcasses in suits.
I open my thought and the shutter. Rothko dawns exist: daily colours melt into one spirit as twilight knits night and day in a quick and intense embrace.
I touch myself in blue tones. Picasso’s absinthe drinker rocks me to sleep.
After midnight it’s often Goya. He rips my dream.
And that is the hour when I just can’t sleep.
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