Nov 15, 2013 - Jan 3, 2014
I could not paint. I could not bear to leave a trace on the canvas. I erased and erased. In the meanwhile, my father died and a year later, my son was born. I was in between a father and son. In place of the hands that pushed my father’s wheelchair, my son’s little hands appeared. My son’s crude eyes filled the air where I had strolled with my father. My son’s first smile replaced my father’s exhausted one. Then, I lost sight and became lost. I am lost. I cannot erase what is already erased. My feet cannot touch the ground. Thick air sinks around me. Impartial pressure pushes my body and I float. I remain afloat - as if I have no attachment to reality. Emaciated ambition. Light sensitivity. Short breathing. And some ashtrays. My son points. He says, go there. He takes two steps ahead and waves for me to come. I follow. A flower. Flowers have bloomed. He smells and tastes. I smile and ask the meaning. To my son, and to me. A deep and dark smile caresses my face. An empty expression makes the corner of my lips quiver. I am thirsty. Let’s go back home. I hold my son’s hand and our eyes meet. Should I show you these paintings? Would it be okay? And I hesitate. Heavy. This deep and dark smile is heavy. Will my son smile this way? I must really return home now.