Every day, to earn my daily bread
I go to the market where lies are bought
Hopefully
I take up my place among the sellers.
Bertolt Brecht, Poems.
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....a rose without a name.
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'god died yong.....'
.. The soft, diffused, intangible ambiguity of a ‘Space’ which is often cut, sliced, pierced by the sharpness of an ‘ Object’. The complacent ‘Stillness’ is shattered with the sound of cracking, bursting, breaking which immediately transports you onto uneasy ground. It could be the pregnant tension of seeds about to rupture from fully ripened fruit or the hand that tries to heal the torn earth or a nail/thorn piercing the still silence, they all invoke the same sense of duality. It becomes difficult to define where life begins and where it ends. These are gentle images of a harsh reality, tender whispering of the bitter ‘Truth’.
....a rose without a name.
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body- hand- head
'god died yong.....'
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