The air rushed in to soak me in its cold embrace, erasing my last memory of the naughty sun and slowly, the sweaty droplets froze on my forehead.
These walls talk, they say many things; stories, feelings, emotions, histories, lies and betrayals… in plain chutzpah.
The strokes on the paintings whisper time; long days and silent nights.
The eyes in the painting mirror the painter’s, uncovering the nadir of his soul. The eyes pierced through the walls fully clothed in; Love, happiness, hatred, envy, jealousy, bitterness an array of vast emotions scattered across darkened wood. These walls say many things.
They speak of sorrow written is in the details of the mast. An intriguing dynamics of circles, squares, and colour all entangled in orderly chaos. Blurry strokes utter tales, an unusual fusion of history and feelings.
Look over there at the brilliant romance of nature and colour, exuding the timeless bond of trust.
Trapped in a corner stood the captivating essence of motherhood. Its marvellous force sprinkled on everything if only brushes could portray the sacred beauty of a mother’s love?
The grey mist of angst soiled with lines and cracks; shorted, crooked lines, roughened at the edges. Each line speaking with timorous caution, they wept till the walls bled.
The Relics from of old stood rising high as sculptures reigning in intensity. Every curve uttered endurance and dedication, they said many things about hands and hearts. They were stoned yet delicate and though elevated as deities, their energy flowed everywhere. In one place, wood freely mated with embroidery, fibre and metal. Its valour boasted of exaggerated goodness and perfected imagination.
The versatility of metal, its willingness to bend and twist into the creeks of its maker’s mind.
The signature nose of a black man squared in an expression of timeless perplexity.
The outstretched neck of old age, signalling a depth of wise words; regrets mostly.
The sweet genius of creativity, crafting from within words created from space.
The secret desperation of a hawker, drowning in the sea of hard work.
Celebrated rural exuberance, dirty baskets never seemed so appealing.
The ancient taboos of black romance; a prince and a slave girl.
The magnificent crown of the black woman, she mastered her worth from behind the walls. She spoke with strength and wore charm as a necklace. She said she could do all things. A woman’s eyes are never silent.
Yellow buses should be archived, they are infested with discomfort and stink of inspiration.
The sanity of insane thoughts, like the nostalgic fragrance of old fabrics.
The timeless display of imagined images.
They said anything could be beautiful if worked on.
Art uses many words.