To time ticking away

This pale morning, all was color and ashes in memory of the day before, just before a blank canvass was erased, to set a path for light where the artist’s solitude drowns with anonymous faces he paints. And yet they are so familiar offering needed support to build up confidence.

This world he believes to be creating for just a moment rests on the palette drowning with colors, convulsing, orphaned, dissatisfied. Touched by feelings, left overs of scents.

Everything is illusionary, imaginary, an invitation to dream during a dark night plagued with silence.

The only comforting noise is that of a brush grabbing a fleeting color, to be mixed with others to form a bouquet, a rose, a sun, to become inebriated with these mixtures to the point where there is no more distinction between night and day.

As if the skyline had vanished. Progressively, in overlaid layers, time becomes an illusion with the path to this crossing as the only ray of hope…

The whiteness of sand dunes in arid countries out of my thoughts are engaged on successive trips that are soothing, Havana settings in rhymes of ochre, yellow, Savannah, honey or sepia, salsa with a breast outlined in copper tones, my contemplations err and fade into a watermark.

I like the time I am taming.

And when birds accompany first emerging glimmers, that the studio door closes, life, outside, appears as the setting of a theatre.

There, we like to think that "real life " is to be found at the tip of our brushes.

Shares of dreams and childhood combine to make it more authentic.