Broken desireNot to be a clone, not to be alone, not to be afraid, not to say goodbye, not to play stone death was my unbroken desire.
There is a space in myself that is undivided by answers. No questions cloud the openness of the minds sky. Opinions are like onions when peeled away they make grown ups cry.
Self-portraits have a certain polemic attached to it. They are a cry for communication, a need to share ones identity, a call for recognition.
Can you see your self in me or do you see only distrust.
Life is a contest where the winner dies as a hero and the loser lives on but is forgotten.
The brain is like a nest with trillions of eggs each one ready to hatch to form its own destiny. A self-portrait is like a low-resolution image of the real thing. It is inconclusive, almost infinite with all the left out possibilities, which linger in the sphere of the unrepresented.
Self-portraits can be elitist because they illuminate a facet of the human diamond by exclusion of the value of others.
The other is only recognized as a replaceable observer and marginalized in the ponzi scheme of fame.
A self-portrait is like planting a rock in fertile ground and hoping for a wonder, a natural not a super natural wonder.
The self is the seed, the portrait is the soil with the audience as the nourishment.
The result though is not predictable and like the rock the self will not be able to sprout if neglected.
One can only assume nothing because only nothing exists in abundance. Unless we materialize it nothing exists to our senses.
Sometimes I wish my self-portraits would beget life and take on the task I assigned them too and nourish me in return for giving them existence.
There is a void that divides us and it is rooted in judgment, in differentiation.
I am not the thought, I am not what I feel, I am not what I see but I am the sum of my I am nots.
I make a sound but I am not the sound. I eat but nothing feeds me. I love but I also destroy.
There is a nexus between unreality and hyper reality, which is plain reality. The daily rituals have to be performed like an actor to co-exist with what automatically exists.
I have no map and no guide that’s why I keep creating portraits of my self.
Sometimes I paint my self abstract free of limitations other times I am the ape that looks out trying to comprehend other times I have the face of a woman lost in a mans body or the looks of a man longing to be a horse.
I am not part of the majority actually I am not part of anything but part of everything.
I resemble a tapestry of other people’s impressions an amalgam of history and future possibilities.
I constructed my self out of pre-given pieces like ready-mades.
I borrowed knowledge and stole emotions from tabloids and TV soap operas.
Pleasure duped me in believing that I was special only to lose the pleasure by being duped.
My intend was to prove what can’t be proven or can only be proven by believing which proves nothing.
My life was supposed to be a homage to the greatness of humankind but every new high top reached made humans look less kind.
The foundation I had built the portrait of my self had been flawed had been corrupted by others and I was set up to collapse sooner or later. Like as if collapse was the whole purpose of life.
To be just another stereotype was not part of the dream of my life as I had developed a broader concept of self but in a cultural context I am not even a structure to be trusted in.
On the way to become whole I became a calculating being, a human doing working on its own undoing.
I am still able to indulge in observation but the stimulus button of life has begun to get numb by pushing it to hard.
Nothing can surprise me, puzzle me because I avoided to be myself and spend to much effort portraying myself as something different, something shinier, something more unusual because to be common was like a premature death sentence.
Now I ended up having to many faces staring back at me and each one is staking claim to be the real me but my true self is banned to a life behind bars.
