Art

  • One

    Here we are, world. Another day of co-creation. I do not own you. You do not own me. And yet we are one becoming many through each moment, each hour, each breath held or released in the face of it… Continue reading

  • Breath

    I am the same breath as my art. Continue reading

  • My Contribution

    I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I keep my distance from the news. I have to, because the moment I face the full ache of this thing, I feel the pain of the entire world. Already, I’ve… Continue reading

  • Live

    It’s the morning. I’m sitting up in bed, leaning against the material laden backboard of the bed I bought when my life tore into two separate pieces. It makes me feel more comfortable than the old wooden one. I feel… Continue reading

  • Rainbow

    Is this a rainbow I see reaching through the collective heart of the dreamers? Wide eyes open, lovely dreamers. You were made to shine the most beautiful lights on the world. Continue reading

  • Sweet Muse

    Come to me, sweet muse. Float into my heart and wake me from sleep. Light the fire within and shine me on my way for a thousand lifetimes. I see you, sweet muse, for what you are to me. A million… Continue reading

  • Perfect

    It only took her an entire winter. But she finished it, eventually, without even glancing at the cupboard of unfinished things. There were wobbly patches and imperfections, but to the young boy, it was perfect. And, so, to her… it… Continue reading

  • The Brightest Angel

    The brightest Angel slides on her spectacles, and smiles. It’s the painting of us that she loves the most. She soaks the brush tip once more: crystal blue and white, and she paints until her miracle is perfect. Continue reading

  • The Cupboard of Unfinished Things

    It happens every year. The wool balls enter the stores in preparation for winter, and my brain enters a frenzy of the most bizarre kind. You see, I’m not really a knitter. And yet, every year, as soon as the first wool… Continue reading

  • A Friend Of Convenience

    Her art is a friend of convenience. It absorbs her. It turns her delicate into raw and beautiful scenes of naked flesh on linen. It turns her hard into lashings of angry black with no recognisable form. The artist removes… Continue reading