Local image #71
2023, Acylic on board, 30x30cm
R990.00
10% off R891.00
Describe, no devil for a while, yellow flowers taking their usual focus, running along, growing wherever there is blood, covering, concealing their roots and what they have grown from—the islands, isles of blood. Lapping its shores are the blue turquoise, ebbs and flows, chaos, irrationality, leaves, buds, and withering flowers—everything that does not attain the glory of the yellow, radiant, yellow splendiforous flowers. Lush marshes, squelchy marshes, wet, muddy, gritty, where things rot and decay, where things lose their determination, they devolve, dissolve, disintegrate into the stuff that preceded their differentiation—dust. The Dionysian churning away at the matter, disintegrating, their unity fragmenting, pulping, making slime and ooze—the sot green, snot-green ocean, or maybe it should have been snot-green, but now it is a beautiful turquoise color. It refuses to be ugly; the ocean is this Tolkeinian map from which all its characters' lives proceed—the new fantasy-slash-reality novel adventures, fighting the dark lords and leviathans and dragons, the gulf of the giant squid. All adventures would have to take place in the ocean, because the land contains nothing but deserts of pale Caribbean beach sand, with perhaps the odd anomalous disruption. The cove of sirens on their rocks, the sea of entanglement, the Kraken, the slow-moving mollusks, Barnacle Bay, the futile abyss, the pearl seabed—or the see-bed of pearls, two different realities, two different vibrations that cannot hear each other. The ghost isles, on the edge of the map, where there be monsters too, where high thick white walls are buttressed by the sea or burdened by the immense weight of the pale sands. There should be a whirlpool too. And a hydra.