As each of us is unique, each has a potential world unique to oneself.
A world where one is genuine, and passionate, and in love…
not quite with oneself, but rather with one’s potential,
with one’s capacity to inhabit it fully and honestly, without fears and excuses.
Some of us are lucky enough to catch a glimpse of this world and even share its reflection.
Most of us yearn for it and wither and die inside for the lack of it…
The magic of Christmas…
Warmth in time of cold,
lights in time of darkness,
food in time of hunger,
drink in time of responsibility…
The most basic,
the most primitive,
the most human…
It is utterly impossible to say exactly what I want to say, for expression changes thought.
But thought does not exist outside expression, and hence it is impossible not to say it.
Expression and thought, form and content…
the endlessly fascinating game that is the colour of vision and the shape of a snail’s shell.
Fall.
The time of unrest.
The space between seasons.
The riotous clamour of colour and the whisper of falling leaves, rustling…
The melody is created in the space between scream and whisper,
as between death and rebirth arises the music of life.
Over the years
I became so used to seeing myself reflected in your eyes –
I forget to look in the mirror…
At the end of the day,
this is the only reflection that matters.
For me, the value of surrealism is not in showing something unusual,
it is in making us look at ordinary things anew…
Seeing what somebody else made up is nothing compared to co-creating a world!
