By regenlieder

Colors swirl in the painting, giving, as always, the illusion of something. Ceci n’est pas une pipe. Red is most dominant, the artist must have been angry or lustfull or passionate or bloody. Blue, too, what does that mean when the teadrops fall so gracefully from the bloody blue wound. Green is there too, swirling with the rest, the saccharine sweet patina of copper and the icy sharpness of freshly cut vines. Mixed with the colors is violence, of a thousand thousand times and worlds cut down, and a thousand thousand more destroyed by careful pruning. White is there too, genesis, longing, false purity, though it is very quiet now and has been tainted by blood and water. Yellow does not swirl, it cuts, glowing code and growing circuits organic in everything but being, and Yellow does not cut, it swirls, artificial in everything but birth. It is symmetric, strangely, in its braided ideas and meaning, blue corrupts red and red corrupts blue, into purple. There are hundreds of Atlantises and hundreds of Tea Shops, and at least one MRI machine.

It is painted on stationary too, old letters made of boiling water, whistling wind, deadly poison. A seal carcass. A rather good book. It is painted too on shades of Red and Blue. Blood. Cerulean. Ruby, Sapphire. Robin, Jay. #ff0000 and #0000ff. The paint is textured, opinions and careful flicks of the hand make dimension easy, almost too much. Time is very mutable, but the painting was not made and will not be destroyed. It exists. Rough figures dominate the foreground, embracing to kill and to kiss, muddling. Each reaches into the other's heart and makes them, becomes them. Figures in the background two, two of them, at war and maybe in love. They are in control, they are sure, and they made themselves very carefully.