Saturday, March 5, 2011

Christina Hendricks thinking of Cheese

Hello all,

Here is my first collage, "Christina Hendricks thinking of Cheese".





After all the hype and usual mounting-on-a-pedestal for someone who might deserve it, I thought to show the personable side of her, by virtual application of my scalpel :-) and expose her 'foodie' side as per the press article (see source below).

The background is made to recall vintage decorum, as well as evoking the cosmetic industry and its complex relationships with fashion and women.

Sources: "Stylist" magazine, issue 67, for photo credits.

Artwork: acrylic paint, paper on canvas board, 7"x5"

Thursday, March 3, 2011

The Parable of the Desert Dream, part 2 of 5

The scene unfolded as I fell from a scorched sky; views of dunes, dark brown mountains like pillars of basalt, rocks and meagre vegetation. the air was gushing towards me, the ground had this telescopic effect of becoming larger and closer by the nanosecond! I kept telling myself it was a dream, only a dream. I saw a man, lying on the sand, dressed in beige with a dark turban, the destination of my intercept course.

The sun was high, mid day, my mouth felt dry. I was not sure for how long I remained unconscious, but I had to move on, to find some shades. I stood up and started walking, automatically balancing myself with my crook. The terrain seemed to be a gentle slope, which I followed for a while unit I reached an old river bed. No rivulet in sight, not one drop of water in months. It went southwards, and so did I. Eventually I reached a deeper and larger area, a small circus that offered the sparse shades of an acacia. A nice flat rock offered a convenient seat; feeling weak and shivering I sat, as my head became dizzy. My ankle was bleeding, I think something bit it or it got damaged after a fall.

The Earth opened in front my me. A djinn appeared in a whisp of smoke, as djinns do. It talked to me with a voice of honey and wine: “You are in trouble now, aren’t you?”; with difficulties I replied a murmured “Yes”. “Well, well, well... “, he said tapping his index finger on his chin, casting his shadow on me, “Would you accept some help from a lowly djinn?, Perhaps this would suffice?”, a water skin appeared in front of me, tempting, “My price is small”, he added as I was reaching for the skin. “What would it be dear djinn?” I asked, “I heard you have cattle... how about sacrificing half of it to me?” he wondered. My thoughts, though chaotic, were quick at the calculation: “My family would not survive this winter, so to your demand I cannot bow” I said. “Very well” said the djinn, as he disappeared, leaving the water skin to burst open over the soil, where all the water that was not swallowed by the ground, evaporated.

I gathered myself and wrapped my tunic around myself, trying to stay in the shadow as much as possible, moving slowly with the sun. The ankle felt worse than ever, after close examination I assumed it was caused by a bullet. As I waited, the ravine revealed itself more to my aching eyes: small shrubs and tiny plants were spread across the gravel and rocks, rapid movements caught at the corner of vision indicated maybe a lizard or a wasp.

Suddenly, the djinn was standing next to me. In his still sweet voice, he said “Wake up! Wake up!”; I looked up, I had fallen asleep again. “Still thirsty? Need some care, don’t we?”. I wanted to speak but a severe cramp to my legs made me scream instead. He lifted his hand, and I immediately felt better, no cramp, no nausea; a new water skin was put in front of me. “Listen”, he said, “Let’s do a deal here, forget about that cattle. If you give me some of your land, milk and have your wife weave the best fabric for me, I will help you. You are dying from the unfortunate events that led you here, why don’t you take your chance to make it up for them! My price is not high compared to the remainder years of life in front of you? For as many drops in this water, as many blessed days you will enjoy”. The offer was very tempting. “My family would not survive this regimen long, we need to cultivate and trade, so to your demand I cannot bow” I said. Angrily, he left. My pain resumed, both my legs aching with cramps, my hands numb. Strangely, I did not feel thirst anymore, as if my body was doing his last stand.

The colours over the small ridge were dark orange on a dark sky, the long shadows were covering most of the river bed. I was holding my chest, breathing the still warm air slowly. I was lying on the ground, looking up at the fist evening stars. My body shook again, a tremor coming from Earth itself. I called for the djinn. “You summoned me, Master?”, he said in an ironic tone, his face was looking down on me from the sky, filling it with his smirk. “What if you were to help me now, djinn?” I croaked. “Your ills are almost beyond my powers. The price... the price would be your first born I am afraid”, his suave murmur descended like a light summer wind on me. I managed a frown of disapproval, “To your demand I cannot bow” I cried. As I said this, a comet silently crossed the sky, and I felt suspended in heavens for the briefest moment. 
Then I laughed and laughed, the pain withering away; I saw through his eyes the man I was, and then I saw the sky, and then I saw through the djinn that he never existed, then his face shattered in millions of stars, and it all made sense.

My mind cleared up, the desert thirst and mine became one in my dying body. As the world grew dimmer around me, my final dream left me to go in every rock, every shrub and every speck of dust of this river bed. It flowed from every pore of my skin.
I dreamt of running water for everyone, fountains like no other, flowers growing in the mud, tall leafy trees, dark greens and bright blues chasing each other in a lake’s reflection. I willed all this and much more in my last breath. Finally, I embraced the land and I embraced my death.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

The Door

The latest and greatest :-)

"The Door", acrylic, glow paint and UV paint on canvas, Swaroski crystals.





A door stands in dark woods, obstructed by ghostly trees, in the shadows of the sleeping mind. 

Desert Dream, part I

It was early Spring, the garden looked already beautiful, away with the general dampness of the late Winter. My olive tree seemed to glow in this pleasant afternoon, its shades of greens and grays resting the eyes against the stark blue background of the sky; I touched its bark: rough, warm.

The bell to the entrance door rang; I went back into the house via the kitchen, but my friend had let himself in. He was carrying a potted plant and, at hand, a card.
“Happy Birthday!”, he said in his usual deep voice, “I can’t remember how old you are, but you definitely don’t look it!”. “And you are early by a month?”, I replied.
As we sat outside the veranda, he put the plant on the coffee table, then said “Yes, a bit early. I am leaving for the amazonian forest Tuesday for three months. Charity work and research. And here is your present”. I took the potted plant, it had think long dark green leaves, slightly shiny or silvery, on a short stout stem; there were some oblong pods, each topped with a different nuance of white.
“It is specie PT-9473. We created this one in the lab last month. Completely harmless of course. I called it the Oniris, the dream plant”, he explained, “it is a mix of a South-American plant genomes and of our own manipulations.” I must have looked worried, because he added “Nothing much on this one, it flowers longer, it requires less water, and its roots have the peculiarity to grow very deep so as to retain soil. Also...”, he started to murmur, “I think it taps in the Gaia field and relays emotions to humans”. The Gaia theory has been en vogue for some time, and my friend was one of its proponents. Nothing scientific to go by at this stage, however our planet improved a lot after people followed this idea. I smiled to him, “How do I take care of it?”. He told me, we chatted on, then we finished our drinks and he left.

I followed his instructions, re-potted the Oniris once more, then carefully acclimated it to one part of my garden, sunny with a rich soil. A lot more required my attention at the time, so I did not think any more of it.

In a June evening, I received a phone call from my friend. “How was the Amazon?” I asked, “Wet like a virgin forest, and dangerous. I am still thereabouts, only taking some vacations in Argentina. How is the dream plan doing?” he said; “Fine, gorgeous and smelly by now” I lied. After the call, I went in the garden. The Oniris had grown taller, a decent size rose bush, the pods still there, little flowers that looked like lips, pink and white, were blossoming. It smelt like fresh water mixed with something acrid, a campari wine with brown sugar, however it did not overthrow you, that smell just titillated the nose then sent some chillls down the spine in a new way.

That evening, the window to my bedroom was wide-open. I was laying in bed restless, various worries going on in my mind, telescoping each others in pangs of anxiety. Suddenly, I noticed the Oniris’ smell, amongst the other scents. It seemed to calm my thoughts, like
diminishing ripples on a lake, and progressively, I went to sleep.

That night, I had the first vivid dream. And I was about to die.