A pang of distress fell over me like a toppling tower of negative emotions. The fear twisted it’s way through my finger tips and in a stark moment, where the moon turned it’s face. I could feel the scream of nature, as Edvard munch would say. I hunched my back like Goya’s ghost, ribs playing tunes to the wind. What exactly was I feeling? . How can I control a polluted sea. Stars mock the land by not touching it, cowering from it’s skin. They hide among the colors of the galaxy, in abstract rays of light. I’d like to be among those stars, watching with pearls as tears at the living dust of the earth. The inconsistency of the sea, and it’s waves. I’m creating an impression in my mind, with blurred eyes starring at pale water to notice my own reflection. Faded as it is opaque. Lilies started to dot the waters of Poseidon’s anger, his pitchfork is now made of plastic. Not even Claude Monet can paint the ripples with soft brushes, the waves are rupturing wounds. He tries to scream, but he has now become an artwork worth writing about. Drowning in a sea of emotions he can’t control.
“Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.” ― Pablo Picasso
-Samantha French, artwork 2010.