My heart is full of you.
It cannot beat fast enough,
to get you out.
Deep Ecology by Daniel Mirante - danielmirante.com
Pakistani artist Imran Qureshi, who uses the nearly 8,000-square-foot open-air space (the rooftop of the Metropolitan Museum of Art) as his canvas, depicts his emotional response to violence occurring in Pakistan and across the globe, by working areas with blood-like spilled and splattered red acrylic paint into patterns of lush ornamental leaves that evoke the luxuriant walled gardens that are ubiquitous in miniatures of the Mughal court and also echo the foliage of Central Park surrounding the Roof Garden. Qureshi is the first artist to create a work that is be painted directly onto the roof’s surface of the museum, encouraging visitors to walk on it as they view it.
Is this love or is this alive?
I am warm in experiences
which make me complete and incomplete
at the same time.
Black and white:
This story is flashes blocks of pure white.
A few flickers develop, the image appears: a woman screaming a breathless scream, crying grey paint masses of tears.
He stands helplessly in front of her (not even 20 feet away) offering a hand. Neither of them move. Nothing separates them. Except for the dust.
The histories between their stories get lost in time and memory. Nothing physical lies between the two. Only the metaphysical which turns out to be just as parting as the sun and moon. Or mountains with rainwater, mossy high and porous desert. Or armies of enemies and allies of angels. Or barbed wire fences and the nations’ on each side.
No, it is none of those things that separated them. What got between them was a moment that went wrong. A time that was less than flashes of white.
Now she will never be forgiven. She screams eternal grabbing at her words, and setting them free again:
I am sorry.
He holds his hand out but never reaches out. He could have reached out. Or taken a step. To move closer.
But instead he extends a feigned acceptance.
She disappears, scream still lingering.
You can hear her in any pure white song you associate with a past love.
Underworld || Born Slippy .NUXX
Being human is rotten tears that roll down past rounded, thin checks. If Luck is close by, it will be cloaked in human skin who catches the tears or the words needed to be spoken. Proclaimed or professed, there is no other form of expression.