Comments
Loading Dream Comments...
You must be logged in to write a comment - Log In
Artist
Inspired byChurrigueresque Psychosomatic Magicalism · Medicine Wheel · Kalachakra · Modernismo.Surrealism, Shimmering Silkscreen, girl with grey eyes demonstrating a hat, small sparrows jumping on the brim of the hat, in the style of RETNA, Barbara Kruger.Multiple independent centers of visual gravity create a complex, non-Euclidean composition. Recursive architectural structures unfold at different scales and orientations, suggesting infinite worlds nested within worlds. Psychedelic Baroque-Rococo maximalism, Catalan Modernisme, intricate ornamental detail, dramatic chiaroscuro, luminous atmospheric perspective, impossible architecture, fractal botanical structures, cinematic depth, painterly realism, and extraordinary high-resolution textures. Composition: Asymmetrical, multidirectional, immersive, densely detailed, with sweeping movement and profound spatial depth. No text, no lettering, no numbers, no signatures, no watermarks, no conventional mandalas.
She found the hat in an ashtray that had belonged to her grandfather, who had smoked his way through two world wars without ever leaving the little town where he was born.
It was a very large ashtray, made of green glass, with a cigarette burn in the shape of Nebraska.
The hat was much too big to fit inside it.
This was the first unusual thing.
The second was that she remembered wearing the hat when she was seven years old, although she had never seen it before in her life.
There were two sparrows sitting on the brim. They looked like birds who had been waiting for somebody to explain a terrible misunderstanding.
One of them was dead.
The other hadn’t decided yet.
She put the hat on her head, and immediately the room became the afternoon of August 14, 1938, although she had been born considerably later.
Outside, a horse was eating roses beside a gasoline station that hadn’t been built yet.
Her mother was calling her home for supper.
This troubled her because her mother had been dead for eleven years, and supper had never been one of her strong points.
The hat was enormous. It contained little staircases and balconies and towers that seemed to have been constructed by architects who had fallen in love with the idea of getting lost.
A clock was growing inside a rose.
Somewhere beneath its silver embroidery, a little girl was crying because she had lost her favourite marble.
She remembered the marble.
It was blue, with a white cloud inside, and she had always believed that if she looked into it long enough she would discover where yesterday went.
But yesterday had apparently gone into the hat.
Along with the horse, the dead sparrow, her mother’s voice, and the smell of cigarettes that had been smoked by men whose names were no longer attached to anything.
She sat down beside the window.
The living sparrow flew away, carrying a small piece of afternoon in its beak.
She wanted to follow it, but the hat was too heavy with all the years that hadn’t happened yet.
So she took it off.
The room returned to its ordinary dimensions.
The ashtray was empty except for a single blue marble.
She picked it up and looked inside.
There was a little girl wearing an enormous silver hat, standing at the edge of a garden.
The girl was waving goodbye.
She waved back.
It seemed the polite thing to do when childhood finally found a way to leave without slamming the door.
