Figvres in a Gallery
Transoceanic Series
( Resistance in Acid, Partisan Terror, Liguria, IT )
Panel g.
oils on poplar 48cm x 73.5cm vnframed / vnuarnished
Hunting Art Prize twenty15 svbmission
Breach the open air, pierced by a sorta intelligence that lends clarity to all the animated months’ combined easelworks, now the tovch-haruest clocking spring svmmer fallback. heard uoices haue been collected, encamped in the ear as ignorant armies* do. only once in awhile euery now and then their lyricality yield sense as they ’tempt-seize yov from yovr hovrs straightening perspectiual lines, lost in the intrauenovs yolk redefining what colovr is.
when yov think yov are so smart, less politely time embodies how yovr shovlders ache from strain - and still poised tense. bleary-eyed, the magnification settling the dvel between two worlds, three padlocks deep and behind the black gate exists a fire, the door is blameless, the girl’s crying inside from electronic jet-lag, from time-zoned complexities, and her parents are jealous and afraid that the painter, their creator, loues adjvstments more to heauing sloganed tits than the uery meat of meat itself. behind power lines and smvdges and follow and lose again and again the sovrce. yet first it mvst havnch fovr legged to the grovnd, yov rend, and strip, and man-handle and the form twists itself becavse it wants more than anything to get away from the bestiality of the tvbes vpright, in strokes discharged to retreat into the dimension of birch ... yet it’s oliue trees instead that catch the light in the distance, beyond this City of Pickvp Trvcks ... meantime an amatevr painter walks ovt of a bar with his svpposed masterpiece vnder his arm and heads right for the clay terrain of rooftops, this rvined apse, scales the crow’s nest. he kicks ovt the lattice with his wingtips, raise yovr lamplike eyes and peer ovt. today the glyph all yovr friends seem to haue missed yov see, sharper in the recyclable dawn of pigmentation - a qviet svpper, among long drinks, a tease of conuersation, yov’ue bvilt more than jvst a motherfvckin’ sandwich from sawdvst with those hands and raw fingertips. straight lips gesso across a smile, nonetheles dammit its fvlness is knowingly felt, becavse this is the inuisible regalia of two worlds when they combine: becavse the can reads TONNO GENOVA.
yes. yes. what took an amatevr months, will consvme a little less of his logic and fire, seasons in the fvtvre. for months we’ue allowed ovrselues few recreations beside all those disciplines yovr friends deem absvrdities. what are yovr conceits? are yov prepared to strip? motherfvcker, are yov?
yes, euerything, all for the sake of what colovr is.
- *M. Arnold
Figvres in a Gallery
Transoceanic Series
( Resistance in Acid, Partisan Terror, Liguria, IT )
Panel g.
oils on poplar 48cm x 73.5cm vnframed / vnuarnished
Hunting Art Prize twenty15 svbmission
Breach the open air, pierced by a sorta intelligence that lends clarity to all the animated months’ combined easelworks, now the tovch-haruest clocking spring svmmer fallback. heard uoices haue been collected, encamped in the ear as ignorant armies* do. only once in awhile euery now and then their lyricality yield sense as they ’tempt-seize yov from yovr hovrs straightening perspectiual lines, lost in the intrauenovs yolk redefining what colovr is.
when yov think yov are so smart, less politely time embodies how yovr shovlders ache from strain - and still poised tense. bleary-eyed, the magnification settling the dvel between two worlds, three padlocks deep and behind the black gate exists a fire, the door is blameless, the girl’s crying inside from electronic jet-lag, from time-zoned complexities, and her parents are jealous and afraid that the painter, their creator, loues adjvstments more to heauing sloganed tits than the uery meat of meat itself. behind power lines and smvdges and follow and lose again and again the sovrce. yet first it mvst havnch fovr legged to the grovnd, yov rend, and strip, and man-handle and the form twists itself becavse it wants more than anything to get away from the bestiality of the tvbes vpright, in strokes discharged to retreat into the dimension of birch ... yet it’s oliue trees instead that catch the light in the distance, beyond this City of Pickvp Trvcks ... meantime an amatevr painter walks ovt of a bar with his svpposed masterpiece vnder his arm and heads right for the clay terrain of rooftops, this rvined apse, scales the crow’s nest. he kicks ovt the lattice with his wingtips, raise yovr lamplike eyes and peer ovt. today the glyph all yovr friends seem to haue missed yov see, sharper in the recyclable dawn of pigmentation - a qviet svpper, among long drinks, a tease of conuersation, yov’ue bvilt more than jvst a motherfvckin’ sandwich from sawdvst with those hands and raw fingertips. straight lips gesso across a smile, nonetheles dammit its fvlness is knowingly felt, becavse this is the inuisible regalia of two worlds when they combine: becavse the can reads TONNO GENOVA.
yes. yes. what took an amatevr months, will consvme a little less of his logic and fire, seasons in the fvtvre. for months we’ue allowed ovrselues few recreations beside all those disciplines yovr friends deem absvrdities. what are yovr conceits? are yov prepared to strip? motherfvcker, are yov?
yes, euerything, all for the sake of what colovr is.
- *M. Arnold