Like watching a memory through a wine bottle. Us lost souls fly through tunnels, inhale our feelings, and rest jaded even when the bullets fly by. It’s a constant dare for impact. As the world distorts, we gaze off and wonder if there’s anything out there that sticks – if sparks ever light lasting fires, if close calls ever collide and bloom.
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Belladonna of Sadness 1973
This bleeds expression in the lushest and most inventive way – a liquid garden of earthly delights, equally an abstraction of pain and trauma as it is a generative and fluid reclamation of sexuality. Cavernous and all-consuming ink wash the picture with darkness. Sad eyes and gangly limbs despair in hopelessness behind red rips of violence. Yet those are the very eyes that oversee the universe; the very limbs that bear a magical and undeniable power.
Just as we drown…
