I'm moving to a new, cleaner apartment in few days. By 'cleaner' I mean less moldy. I have been spending too much time indoors these days. But painting is on hold now and once I get more works ready for the exhibitions after moving I have to get out of my apartment more. Sitting and working on floor make my back worse than ever before. Soon I will be strolling the Kyoto streets like many old Japanese people in ninety degrees angle. Asthma and sciatica, not exactly the best companions for working indoors on floor.
But I'm not complaining, this is more like pondering about the observations of the corporeal reality reminding of how the body works. I can't help but wonder how I can not break into pieces, muscles holding together, bones unbroken, blood streaming like trains through the night and skull not caving in. But it's like evolution: a slow, unobservable metamorphosis. A metamorphosis of turning into food for others.
In the middle of many stressful things I'm building my visual grammar. Maybe I'm making a new language to talk in the future. But there's no story, no narrative. Perhaps I'm about to form a question, maybe you have the answer. I don't know what I'm looking for. But it's there, blinding bright.
Arashiyama one month ago:
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