are like soft smooth beginnings. They are appealing. An aesthetic snapshot of a very clear trajectory.
Smooth down one side. Stroke one. Smooth down the other side. Stroke of the pen number two.
But the shoulders, what weight they carry. And our words? They are simply never enough.
I needed many words to understand the simple physiognomy of my face. I wrote them down and they have gathered here to watch me commit art.
I have sinned. I have committed art over and over again. I have fallen into art many moons ago. I was obsessive, hungry, wretched and in hell.
I wanted to spend the next minute explaining the last one. I was sick. Since I first committed art, I have kept committing it.
I have committed so much art that now I almost finished the first draft of my family's anthology. It is mostly my obsession and so it is fiction.
I have divided this sin into two parts.
In black and white.
I began with white light. Purity and Ada. What it means to love someone fiercely without looking back without looking forward.
*
Ada is watching a vague sunset. Adam is holding her hand yet he is asleep.*
This is a frame. This is a still frame where Adam exists solely for Ada's whimsy. Ada dies and Adam escapes.
But then it all became twisted trying to search for the truth.
The more I wrote the more I found the need to add black in brushstrokes here and there. It was all needed to be tinged in black you see. Tiny cages of black brushstrokes. Black was the moment when Ryan felt heartbreak. Black was the moment when Paul lost his father. Black was the moment I doubted my love for Paul. Black was the moment I realised I had left New Mexico for good. Black was the shade our car left behind as it drove past fields and fields of sunflowers and corn into the east coast into the freedom piece into the ocean wave.
By the time I finished (or thought I was close to finishing) I saw white through black. Rather, more clearly, I saw past through present. And I knew we begin with the white because we remember the love. But in the end, we need the black to pull us towards the moment of breath. Towards the moment of truth. Towards the moment of lightness.
So, I give you everything. Every sin, every moment and every joy.
Smooth down one side. Stroke one. Smooth down the other side. Stroke of the pen number two.
But the shoulders, what weight they carry. And our words? They are simply never enough.
I needed many words to understand the simple physiognomy of my face. I wrote them down and they have gathered here to watch me commit art.
I have sinned. I have committed art over and over again. I have fallen into art many moons ago. I was obsessive, hungry, wretched and in hell.
I wanted to spend the next minute explaining the last one. I was sick. Since I first committed art, I have kept committing it.
I have committed so much art that now I almost finished the first draft of my family's anthology. It is mostly my obsession and so it is fiction.
I have divided this sin into two parts.
In black and white.
I began with white light. Purity and Ada. What it means to love someone fiercely without looking back without looking forward.
*
Ada is watching a vague sunset. Adam is holding her hand yet he is asleep.*
But then it all became twisted trying to search for the truth.
The more I wrote the more I found the need to add black in brushstrokes here and there. It was all needed to be tinged in black you see. Tiny cages of black brushstrokes. Black was the moment when Ryan felt heartbreak. Black was the moment when Paul lost his father. Black was the moment I doubted my love for Paul. Black was the moment I realised I had left New Mexico for good. Black was the shade our car left behind as it drove past fields and fields of sunflowers and corn into the east coast into the freedom piece into the ocean wave.
By the time I finished (or thought I was close to finishing) I saw white through black. Rather, more clearly, I saw past through present. And I knew we begin with the white because we remember the love. But in the end, we need the black to pull us towards the moment of breath. Towards the moment of truth. Towards the moment of lightness.
So, I give you everything. Every sin, every moment and every joy.
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