The colors that Blind me
What you're about to read is a very very private and intimate excerpt of my thoughts that I wrote years ago after finishing a series of paintings. I'm not really sure if I'm talking to myself. Or I was just tired.
Part reality part fiction...here it goes..Enjoy....
" Just A Thought"
I have come to terms that every day I find myself reevaluating my life. The ups and downs. As an artist, as a being; as a friend. A temporary conclusion that the struggles of trying to find myself have not succeeded. Instead I have found that the memories of my life have become a staple of my work. Maybe if I didn't try to re-evaluate my relationships I may be able to free myself of the crucial moment of insecurity.
Paintings have become an understanding of the reason why I live today. Apparently the universe is guiding me somehow, cause God knows my direction has not worked for the past fifteen years or so. I do realize that I have treated my relationships with a sense of ownership ( sort of ). I own my paintings, I will always own them. It's my domain. My mistake is only my accident, the way I drip and pour paint is to show the colors around me, the colors that make me. The palette that makes every day different. I aggressively splash them at times to release the inner energy.
The constant revolution of colors swirling in front of me make me think that a canvas is my heart, at a constant struggle of direction. The attachment, the loss, the surprise, the unknown. I describe my work as an abstract aberration of the replacement in todays expressionism. The fury, the anger, the rage of my one and only goal in life. Love. Although abstract in my ways I ramble to myself asking why do I love. Who taught me such.
Instinct, lies, truth, doubt, all forgiven by love.
I will always speak from the internal chaos in me. The drips and controversy behind my so called paintings is only a spoken language that few understand. I love and care for the wrong reasons, to create is my habit, my fears are my inspiration, my heart is my clock. It ticks and it tocks...the possibilities of it's time are endless and infinite. So is my love, as a true being I find myself becoming a martyr sometimes. Why? Cause I sit there and try to re-evaluate my life over and over, trying to see where I went wrong.
No.... why not. I will always be in love with the imaginary damsel, my Juliet. If I can only see that she's only a piece of cloth, if I can detach from it's texture, from the feeling it gives when it runs through my fingers. If I can only see that it's only a picture, a photograph of sorts. If I can only forget that I can't control the paint ,or control the drip (the vulnerabilities) in others.
My heart cries trying to deliver a palette acceptable to the one I love. If I can someday let go, maybe I'll move into another form of expression, but for now I'm blind and ambivalent to my own pain. Trying to justify my chaos with some sort of style or influence. I have none of them. When I paint I'm alone, I cry, I hurt, I rage, that's my work. A flow of colors that assimilate a parallel direction. An invisible paradigm.
You are my inspiration, you are my infatuation, you are my mistake, the only one I have no control over. Why because you are not and never were my canvas. I'm sorry that I came across as one who tried to own you. I will never own you, I will never own my chaos, I will never own myself.
I will only own the sensation that I give to others, the entertainment. The possibilities are endless for most people, not for me as I can seem to be difficult and demanding of my work. I want my texture to be felt even if you were blind. A braille form to feel the color. Well it's not mine; never was. It belongs to the universe. I thank you for giving me the spirals I needed to complete this new series.
You know who you are. I dedicate my work, my chaos, my heart to you. You are my fairy, will always be. The mythical muse I'll never meet.
Thank you for keeping my desire to paint and create alive. Feel It, Create it, Express It, Live it. Without fear. We're all an art form of sorts.
FABIAN
Written around April, 2009.
Downtown LA.
Part reality part fiction...here it goes..Enjoy....
" Just A Thought"
I have come to terms that every day I find myself reevaluating my life. The ups and downs. As an artist, as a being; as a friend. A temporary conclusion that the struggles of trying to find myself have not succeeded. Instead I have found that the memories of my life have become a staple of my work. Maybe if I didn't try to re-evaluate my relationships I may be able to free myself of the crucial moment of insecurity.
Paintings have become an understanding of the reason why I live today. Apparently the universe is guiding me somehow, cause God knows my direction has not worked for the past fifteen years or so. I do realize that I have treated my relationships with a sense of ownership ( sort of ). I own my paintings, I will always own them. It's my domain. My mistake is only my accident, the way I drip and pour paint is to show the colors around me, the colors that make me. The palette that makes every day different. I aggressively splash them at times to release the inner energy.
The constant revolution of colors swirling in front of me make me think that a canvas is my heart, at a constant struggle of direction. The attachment, the loss, the surprise, the unknown. I describe my work as an abstract aberration of the replacement in todays expressionism. The fury, the anger, the rage of my one and only goal in life. Love. Although abstract in my ways I ramble to myself asking why do I love. Who taught me such.
Instinct, lies, truth, doubt, all forgiven by love.
I will always speak from the internal chaos in me. The drips and controversy behind my so called paintings is only a spoken language that few understand. I love and care for the wrong reasons, to create is my habit, my fears are my inspiration, my heart is my clock. It ticks and it tocks...the possibilities of it's time are endless and infinite. So is my love, as a true being I find myself becoming a martyr sometimes. Why? Cause I sit there and try to re-evaluate my life over and over, trying to see where I went wrong.
No.... why not. I will always be in love with the imaginary damsel, my Juliet. If I can only see that she's only a piece of cloth, if I can detach from it's texture, from the feeling it gives when it runs through my fingers. If I can only see that it's only a picture, a photograph of sorts. If I can only forget that I can't control the paint ,or control the drip (the vulnerabilities) in others.
My heart cries trying to deliver a palette acceptable to the one I love. If I can someday let go, maybe I'll move into another form of expression, but for now I'm blind and ambivalent to my own pain. Trying to justify my chaos with some sort of style or influence. I have none of them. When I paint I'm alone, I cry, I hurt, I rage, that's my work. A flow of colors that assimilate a parallel direction. An invisible paradigm.
You are my inspiration, you are my infatuation, you are my mistake, the only one I have no control over. Why because you are not and never were my canvas. I'm sorry that I came across as one who tried to own you. I will never own you, I will never own my chaos, I will never own myself.
I will only own the sensation that I give to others, the entertainment. The possibilities are endless for most people, not for me as I can seem to be difficult and demanding of my work. I want my texture to be felt even if you were blind. A braille form to feel the color. Well it's not mine; never was. It belongs to the universe. I thank you for giving me the spirals I needed to complete this new series.
You know who you are. I dedicate my work, my chaos, my heart to you. You are my fairy, will always be. The mythical muse I'll never meet.
Thank you for keeping my desire to paint and create alive. Feel It, Create it, Express It, Live it. Without fear. We're all an art form of sorts.
FABIAN
Written around April, 2009.
Downtown LA.
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