Mors vincit omnia (Death conquers all).

«Eternal Sleep — Mors Vincit Omnia», oil on canvas, 80 x 60 cm., 2021.

 

“Eternal Sleep — Mors Vincit Omnia”, 80 x 60 cm., oil on canvas, 2021.

One of the largest challenges for an artist is possibly that of deciding / daring to envision and portray oneself as dead. While Death itself is a fascinating theme for many artists, the psychological and superstitious reasons for not painting oneself as deceased keeps many artists in lockdown as regards trespassing and overcoming this mental and emotional hurdle.

On ne peut pas vivre sa vie en ayant peur de la mort. Mais soyez assuré que la mort l’emporte sur tout, y compris la peur.

You cannot live your life being afraid of death. But rest assured that death wins out over everything, including fear.

 

When Twilight Comes.

When twilight comes and consciousness sleeps in,

age-old echoes from prehistoric times begin to hum

Ego’s cradle-song … first with low, dark-brown

cello tones which cause bone-marrow to tremble until

it flows, and then with high, glossy, unheard shrieks

which can only be made by angels who mean to provoke.

In time, my uneven breathing becomes transformed

into turquoise-colored waves which whip my oversensitive

psychic fortress from sobriety, and near panic.

There are no guarantees that I am ready for the

extraordinary gift that I am to be given:

a glimpse of existence in its unbelievable purity, which

is so personal that I am forced to grab onto

my earthly reality and smash the perfection

into countless, cloudy bits of mirror which rain lightly

upon my consciousness. I awaken sweaty, but not

completely empty-handed .. and I am not the person

I once had been.

 

 


Nocturnal Journey.

In the twenty-fifth hour,

as sleeplessness concedes

to Jungian twilight,

the inviolate ticking

of the bedside clock

betrays consciousness

with sinister rhythm.

It is a requiem of

abandonment, whereby

unprotected souls are

magically ushered to the

threshold of time’s end.

Clockhands melt into

surreal images of groping,

disembodied appendages which

pull me down into the

infernal swirling oblivion.

I seem to fall forever;

plummeting past floating

sandstone ruins, through

prehistoric jungles and

at last into a vast galaxy

of translucent emerald shards.

The heartbeats of innumerable

still-terrified predecessors

urge me to scream before

striking bottom, and I

awaken in panic: grasping

for the luminous dial

of my unwitting timepiece.

 

DON’T ASK …

“Don’t Ask”, oil on canvas, 40 x 40 cm., self-portrait.

“Art should comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comfortable”.
— Cesar A. Cruz

DON’T ASK …

please don’t ask me how I am;
you can’t really expect
me to be any different
than I was yesterday.
we’re all really quite normal –
me, myself and I, and in
spite of our narcotic state can
be up and down simultaneously.
and don’t look at me too long;
I despise those “I know
how you must be feeling
eyes” and concerned tone.
why must you always misconstrue
the way my gaze avoids yours?
my anti-social disposition is
intended to protect you from us.
no — it doesn’t help to
speak slowly, pronouncing
each word with the sweetened
diction of a nun or nurse.
I honestly can’t tell you how to
act, for I have trouble enough
getting us to agree about
how we’ll shield you from me.
it’s really best to let me volunteer,
lest my unbridled demons unleash
their flame-throwing dragons to singe
the delicate threads of your own ego.
and you, so footloose, must avoid looking
back into the darkness whose glittering
maze of mirrors encapture those who poke
their noses where they don’t belong.
go ahead — ask me how I am …

(poem and oil painting by Adam Donaldson Powell)

 

… tes promesses suggérées.

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Si douces
sont tes promesses suggérées.
Mon étranger.
Mon inaccessible
moment de passion.
Tu me cajoles ;
tu me rejettes.
Nous ne pouvons
nous posséder
que dans des rêves fugitifs :
tous deux si différents
si totalement autres
et pourtant …
si merveilleusement
en harmonie.
L’implacable fantasme
est plus que la somme
des parts de réalité.
Je te vois partout ;
dans les pas des étrangers …
dans mes souvenirs.
Glissant depuis la taille,
lentement, jusqu’aux orteils
puis, avec la violence d’un éclair
l’on remonte, tout en haut,
pour ensuite
découvrir ton visage
insignifiant.
Mon étranger.
Ma passion.
Mon étranger …
Si doux.