Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Monday, March 14, 2016
Peace
(Charcoal on paper)
in the arms of the angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort here
memories seep from my veins
let me be empty
and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort here
memories seep from my veins
let me be empty
and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Why paint..
Painting is a relief.
It is a set of experiences one carries deep inside one's self, that is desperate to get out. It is a representation of the story. The catharsis of the moment. In the act and in the design, it provides an overwhelming sense of peace.
It is at once isolation and intimacy. It is silent conversations with yourself. A slow moving dance with the essence, the remnants of the emotion that finds form and shapes and colors and smells and textures. Like blood on a white canvas.
It is the only resort when every other form of expression is constrained. When the words sound too small and music too loud. But the brush! The brush feels free and fluid - to say it all.
And when its over, there is relief. There is peace. The turbulence finds calmness. Like sand at a shore after an angry sea retreats. It is smooth. And black. And laid to rest. The music sounds beautiful and the words come alive.
The world becomes a beautiful place again.
It is a set of experiences one carries deep inside one's self, that is desperate to get out. It is a representation of the story. The catharsis of the moment. In the act and in the design, it provides an overwhelming sense of peace.
It is at once isolation and intimacy. It is silent conversations with yourself. A slow moving dance with the essence, the remnants of the emotion that finds form and shapes and colors and smells and textures. Like blood on a white canvas.
It is the only resort when every other form of expression is constrained. When the words sound too small and music too loud. But the brush! The brush feels free and fluid - to say it all.
And when its over, there is relief. There is peace. The turbulence finds calmness. Like sand at a shore after an angry sea retreats. It is smooth. And black. And laid to rest. The music sounds beautiful and the words come alive.
The world becomes a beautiful place again.
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