Tag Archives: art

Twice Nightly

I reach deep inside myself and find there is nothing. I fear my lurking superficiality, for it might reveal all I lack to the world. My mind is shingle grey like the beaches I once called home. I shroud myself in the dull hues of strand, sea and sky that wash into each other until I am almost drowning in monotony.

Other days when I reach inside myself it's like a jungle. My mind has been overgrown with mysterious half formed shapes, but everything is covered in moss and trailing creepers. The good and the bad grow side by side. The indiscriminate fecundity is almost nauseating and I choke on the sweet aroma of life feeding on death. I disgust myself.

I dream of being an artist, so, arid or rotten, I strip myself bare and swing dizzyingly on the trapeze of my emotion. Below me no one watches with bated breath. I take my life, so private in its living, and thrust it into the public lap to be virtually ignored. I am just an imitator. Life is a cabaret and this artiste shows twice nightly.

The Artist

I am the artist and creator of my life.  I have pictures that line the long hallway of my life. Some of these artistic renditions are masterpieces. I have beautiful detailed memories that are vivid and bright, executed clearly and framed exquisitely. Some are sketches or maybe just sketchy. Brief line drawings that capture the shadow of a moment. 

As curator, I have applied no reason or rhyme to the collection. Some of the memories that are the most golden seem to be attached to events that were quite unremarkable at the time. Other major moments or seemingly key times have been ruthlessly archived into dark recesses and held under lock and key.  The curation has been highly selective and very subjective. 

The memories that hang, easily retrieved, paint no accurate picture of the path I have walked through life. My mind has edited and refined my collection. Every now and then I see an oil painting that seems to have a rather unusual perspective. Some paintings have been rendered so sympathetically I am not sure I was ever truly there. 

So here I am with my hallway of memories . A random and diverse set of paintings that portray my life with no more or less accuracy than I apply to this, my writing. For I am the artist and this life I put out on display, is merely a creation.