My corner in my studio is not a mere corner. It is me. I am born every time my brush touches the palette and caresses your body to fuse my inner self in you. You are born every time I am born. Every time I pour my sentiments on you. You become real and you become me. I become you.
I am not the painter, I am my painting.
Pour my glass and get me drunk with every gulp which brings me to you. I will forever die in this corner, forever live, relive, be born, become you.
I pain(t) on my whiteness until all fade to black. Until my shadows find a place to elongate. My hands are stiff once holding my brush but my fingers are lenient and are able to flush away all the awe not yet put on my canvas, not yet colorized, not yet pain(t)ed.
We all fade to black, black is a color, I am longing for my own color in black.