An extra stroke of the brush. Nothing seems to fill this perfection we seek. Nothing seems to dance perfectly to the rhythm of our hearts. Or hear the words our hearts speak perfectly. So we add extra and extra. To bring to life the perfection of our mental picture. We are a kind of people. A kind of people plagued with a disease of insatisfaction and imperfection. Not of the world we live in.

For those issues that concern all of us. My art and poetry is very political now. Somewhere out there, I know, there will be people who will listen. 1937, oil on canvas, 349 cm 776 cm. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. Notify me of new comments via email.

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