Sepia Watercolour, self portrait.
70 × 50 cms
not shown nor sold. pretty new.
I Just painted this out of my head… it is a younger me… though this wasn’t my intent. They just grow sometimes, you know?
I return to watercolour like a fish to the tour de france. Hard medium to use.
Our hesitance, we HESITATE how CAN we?
A deep and cold weight swaying and shuddering. Alive with staccato violence, punching through any wholeness any aggregate any omneity any cohesion any assembled assimilation of the WHOLE ENCHILADA! We are in the world like a killer’s swollen soul like a war, like a star dying! Collapse an event horizon we are too distended with mass to escape the weight in our hearts the cold mass the cold the stone curse the albatross of loss! The cold the COLD!
VIOLENCE against my ribs like a Titan’s maul, a god-hammer of ending!
Uncountable a breath a hundred bruising spasms another is there not yet blood is there not yet an end is there yet more breath after this after THIS.
Give up. Give IN.
Let it fall… swift enough to stir the air between our outstretched aching arms. De-integration – less than dust something neverthere.
Fail to clench fingers around what slides precious, precious and gone across our palms.
Acquiescence like slipping into cool water; soothing radiation burns and gravel rash and paper cuts and humiliation and thrush. Like slipping into the best shoes that you ever ran in just before they fell apart; like slitting a throat.
Close an empty hand in a slow, a soft folding.
Fingers trembling; a half grin peeled over teeth aching and worn; worn uncertain and fading in the half light.
Rictus of acceptance.
Smile of the damned.
Absolution in MEDIOCRITY.