Picasso once said: Art is the lie that reveals the truth.
The truth it reveals for me is the world inside. Art is my voice that speaks loud when my tongue is held captive.
I watch closely, anxiously trying not to miss the tiniest detail, the nuances that could tell me, what’s going on. I think. I tie threads together, creating ever new patterns of scenarios, stories, tales. I have opinions, relevant arguments, quips, puns, sarcastic remarks, useful information, additional thoughts, finds. It’s all there, but it just doesn’t come out. Between fascination and fear, confusion and adoration over this world and the people in it my lips are sealed.
Lines and colors however, they whisper, mumble, moan, explain, yell, stutter, sing it all. The memories. The desires. The outcries. The love and care. The longing. The deep thoughts and ideas. The thank yous. You name it. It is all there.
Just one thing it is not – never meaningless as that is not in my vocabulary, not even in this.