(artist) screaming into void

The biggest problem with cliches is how good they are, yet how unoriginal it feels to use them.

Maybe being unoriginal shouldn't matter much -- maybe most cliches were created as other cliches dressed up in a fancy enough coat to make everyone forget their nature.

Even what I wrote before seems cliche, but hopefully, my dressing will be tasty enough for you to be saturated. If not, well, I'm not sorry. You've got enough time to waste a minute on something I wrote.

Anyway, I'll keep this one short so that you won't have to feel bad if my pretentiousness isn't able to impress.

The working title of this painting was 'A real artist happily screams into the void,' but I didn't feel like writing such a long title, so I shortened it, perhaps a little too much. 

A real artist doesn't and can't ever exist, but if there was one, I imagine they would have to be able to make art because they want to make art and be happy doing so, even if nobody else notices or cares.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Hating the gift

Lisa met Johny in a comment section for a post about a new pair of shoes that, for a couple of days, everyone seemed to talk about. 

They discussed and bonded over their shared hatred for the original poster -- who, in their opinion, wasn't cultured enough to voice their opinions.

They quickly started talking more and developed a close relationship rooted in complaining about pop culture; they fancied themselves unique.

However close they might have been, their physical distance did not help to resolve their otherwise lonely and empty existence.

Generally, most distances are reachable. Unfortunately for them, a human could not travel this route. It just was not possible.

But when Johny went to the post office to send back a recently no longer trendy sweater (he had ordered it when it was still stylish, it arrived late and now clearly wasn't,) he noticed that he could fit into the grandest allowed box.

So he shipped himself to Lisa, but the moment their eyes met, they found another shared thing they could hate -- each other.

Lazybones

Looking up from the floor is a mesmerizing perspective. You get to witness this part of the room that you frequently see but rarely pay attention to.

The otherwise unappealing sight has recently become a big part of my entertainment. Once in a while, I lay there for half an hour or so, often at least once a day.

And I could not tell you what I did while laying there -- though, of course, I know because there isn't anything to do.

I've become the laziest person on earth, hopefully having my recent medication to blame. Because the alternative is something I don't think I can accept currently.

Even making my art is something I have to force myself to do, but maybe this has always been more true than I'd like to think now.

At least I'm a little less anxious, and social interactions are less dreadful.

Dreams create desire

What's the most intense desire you've ever experienced? And what caused it?

I often experience the most intense desire after absurd dreams, which I barely remember. Some flashes, if lucky, but the desire they inflict can persist for a week easily.

And it always feels weird. In a way, it's not even necessarily easily identifiably linked to the dream, just a lust for a friend, a partner, fame, money, or whatever else you can imagine. 

If you'd ask me, I'd say that I don't generally want these (kinds of) things, but still, apparently, dreaming about having them makes me, in some way, crave them;

That begs the question: are these not just passions that I otherwise try to hide from myself? What's the point in wanting something you "can't" have anyway?

Waiting for the call

I feel anxious about whether I'm actually anxious or not, and I'm not even sure about the authenticity of that feeling.

I've always experienced anxiety, but the feeling used to be predictable. Recently (it's already been more than half a year), it has become part of my regular experience -- making art about being hungry might have me feeling off.

It took me a while to talk to my GP. It took us longer to figure out it probably wasn't physical, which led to me getting referred to a mental health clinic, which is taking even longer to call back.

They told me I'd be on the waiting list for 72 days. When I had waited those days, and they hadn't called me, I assumed they didn't count weekends and vacations. When even accounting for that, the days had passed without a call; I became anxious about whether I did something wrong. 

I know I should call them to confirm, but I'm sure I've become very fond of waiting for the call. Maybe I am actually anxious, but it's just another hobby to fill my empty time.

On being Zen

Depending on who reads this, you may not know I'm Zen. I've always been and will be for the rest of (my) time. That isn't a comment on my state of mind, which often is either quite Zen or the exact opposite; 

It's part of the first names my parents gave me.

I'm not sure if I've ever hated it, but I've grown to like it a lot. Who doesn't like being unique in something? Even though it's not something I've had to put any effort into, it still feels good.

It's not always clear to me what it means to be Zen. Actually, it's only rare that it's not, but even then, I'm always sure I'm more authentically Zen than most gurus who might claim they are. 

Not that it matters.

Art my parents hate

The title of this art piece is a lie, but it's more accurate than most real stories you love, which are either filled with falsities or cherry-picked -- this is what you want.

So, the title of this art piece is the truth.

My mom (in friendly words) keeps telling me about how she doesn't like my recent poems. What she means, and where she is correct, is that they are not great at communicating my ideas. 

It's the same reason I struggle to read poetry; it just doesn't resonate. But still, I'll keep creating poems that I likely wouldn't enjoy had I not made them.

Until I find a way to change them, and by then, she'll have forgotten that she was a big reason behind the change. 

My dad doesn't even hate my poems; he doesn't care for them at all. They mean nothing to him.

Success wouldn't mean making my mom, who studied the English language at some university, like my poems. I'm sure I could make her care. 

No, real success means making even my father, who surely influenced my indifference to language, care.

Innate hero complex

I'm talking to an art collector and explaining my art in a museum. I keep saying these cool-sounding, fascinating sentences. Any question they ask me, I somehow know the perfect response to -- they're amazed by my cleverness.

I turn the corner, and an ordinary (for Den bosch) yet beautiful building that I've looked at a thousand times before but for the first time see appears and slips me out of any other thought I might've had, in this case, what I think is a daydream.

I don't KNOW if it's a daydream, but unlike other thoughts, in all of them, I'm in scenarios where I'm a hero of some kind. It's hard to talk about because it's embarrassing and not something you remember. 

So I'll let your imagination fill in the blanks; it's either grandiose fantasies, what I should say to my colleagues or family when I see them again, or what I should've said in the past.

Slave to impulses

Whenever I've got any semblance of a good idea, which often is just something to complain about, I've got a tendency to express it multiple times in a short period. 

So, this is just another piece complaining about being hungry but then disguised by something more abstract to not bore you or me with a stale story (and to appear more intelligent).

Impulses drive everything you've ever done and ever will do. Which I don't think is much of a problem most of the time, but some of those impulses will be for things you know you shouldn't do. 

You may give in, suffering the consequences you knew would exist, then later complain about those, or you can, and will often, not.

Maybe you'll try very hard never to submit, you'll get none of the drawbacks and none of the dopamine, and now you're bored; is this even a life worth living?

And once again, you'll go back to a hedonistic lifestyle that'll at least keep you entertained while you're capable of it: this is happiness.

Seeing yourself waiting

The topic of this art piece is a boring situation. Few people get excited by having to wait. I certainly don't care much for it, but I'll try to convince you why you should.

If you're waiting and look around, you will notice something interesting, at least if you allow yourself to be entertained by the otherwise unremarkable.

This piece specifically was about waiting for the train. Nowadays, I don't take the train often, but I recently wanted to go to the office, so I had to. 

Next to the countless people, which already makes paid attention worth it (nothing else to spend it on either), I also noticed an old lady carrying four bikes, the bluest tomatoes, rain without clouds, a dog walking his human, and a flying train, all just within the one trip.

But the most intriguing thing I've ever noticed was myself on a different platform. As you may expect, I was waiting, and to my concern, I looked bored, like I wished I would be anywhere else (but I couldn't). Seeing myself in that state made me incredibly disappointed.

Locked out

Then I arrived "home" without even a keyfob in my possession. They took that away from me, too. I should've just rang the doorbell of one of my neighbors.

It took about an hour for another resident to walk by, and from the moment I noticed them, I somehow sensed they would be using a different door. Instead of following them, I decided I'd rather wait some more.

Only thirty minutes later, someone from the correct door arrived. I mustered up the courage to follow them, and when they were about to open the door, their keyfob didn't work -- the door, not my keyfob, was broken this whole time. 

We exchanged some quick words, but I couldn't handle the internal awkwardness and decided to move to the other door.

Nobody else would arrive for two hours, so I finally rang a doorbell. When I pulled the front door, I noticed that someone had put a screw in the door so anyone could open it. Who knows for how long this had been the case?

Of course, I learned a lot from the situation -- mainly that I should buy a ladder so I could climb onto the first floor when necessary.

Happily walking my life away

There are many ways you can travel to most locations you need to go, and there's only one almost universal: walking.

Even though that's an intriguing idea, it doesn't influence my love for the transportation method much.

Frankly, I struggle to understand why I love it so much -- I'm Dutch, so maybe it's because biking is just too prevalent, making walking another way to feel unique. 

My parents think I'm crazy. They also think it's weird that I don't repair my bike or get a driver's license. But I'm content with walking -- toward public transit if necessary.

Walking seems to suit me. I don't move or go outside enough, or rather, I wouldn't if it weren't for walking. There's also so much time in our lives, and a lot of it we waste on dopamine machines; walking is an alright alternative to that.

And finally (and this is a secret), it's how I find all the ideas for my art. I'm not sure who leaves them there, but throughout the city (and surrounding area), someone ditches all these great, free ideas I pick up, which nobody else ever seems to. Maybe they're all too busy to look around.

Finding meaning in anything

Only once was I ever depressed. 

My parents never recruited me into a religion, nor did they push me away absolutely, though probably more than they realize.

They convinced me that there weren't any spiritual omniscient beings and that the idea was ridiculous, the latter coming naturally; if you're sure it's nonsense, the concept quickly becomes laughable. 

It's hard not to look down on people who you ""know"" believe in silly creatures, and I wasn't above it either. Even now, while I cognitively recognize we can't know, and much of the conclusion is almost evolutionarily determined, I'm as jealous as I feel superior.

In the most respectable way I can. Because everyone, presumably, feels the same way (though they are wrong as I am right.)

But then, one day, I realized that if not for the spiritual, except for being happy, there's no reason to exist, which took me by surprise for probably less than a minute, when I understood it meant I got to pick whatever I wanted, optimally one day forgetting it ever was a choice.

I suppose the religious people might've figured this out quicker than me. 

And now, way too much like my parents, my art, words, family, and walks are my meaning.

Blind Guy's World

In early February, I walked into the Citadel in Den Bosch to look at one of the great perspectives of the city. I sat down on a bench, listening to Echoes. 

A little later, a guy I had noticed a minute before found the bench. I assumed he also wanted to enjoy the view.

""I don't care much about the concrete,"" he told me. He mustn't have noticed my headphones, or maybe he didn't care, and because I didn't want to make it awkward and was severely confused, I responded, which I wouldn't typically: ""What do you enjoy?""

I was mostly confused because the perspective we were looking at contained no concrete.

And without thinking, he explained: ""Solid shapes, depth, dots. Colors do nothing for me."" Part of this seems reasonable, but sometimes, when someone gives me a subjective opinion I don't share, I can't believe them. 

Then, I knew it was time to leave. I hadn't been able to enjoy the perspective much since noticing the guy anyway, and now he wasn't making much sense.

I told him he had some good taste and that I had to go. Only when I had left the Citadel and walked next to the water I noticed he was blind -- because while flying away from the bench, he crashed into the bridge.

So, in his honor, I recreated that guy's world, or at least what I could understand from his confusing opinions.

Stairs At Night

Differences in light and visibility change scenes much, and not at all. It's easy to not care about impressive sights and, at the same time, to feel very passionate, maybe even emotional, about an ordinary backyard. 

More so than any changes in the atmosphere, it's a different mindset that can suddenly transform an uninteresting building into a masterpiece.

Often, a change in the scene is just an excuse to look around, and when you do that, looking for great perspectives, they, however impossibly slowly moving, even creep up on you.

And there's no way to preserve it; a picture will never capture the same feelings, as they're part of the mindset, and any description or imitation will be a weak copy (at best). All you can do is enjoy it and maybe be inspired, knowing the great impression this made on you. 

Or, perhaps I'm just bad at what I do -- here are the stairs of the Library in the heart of Den Bosch, shining bright in the dark.

Staring At My Incomplete Work

If you ever caught me like this, which you never could, it would be easy to assume that despair is tormenting me.

Yes, I might be frustrated, but somehow, this is the most satisfying and worthwhile activity to pursue.

Often, I complain about not having enough time (to work on my art). And this takes many minutes, multiple times a day when I would otherwise be busy painting. 

While torture wouldn't be able to uncover what I'm thinking while sitting there, I've never wasted a minute staring at my incomplete work.

Then, when a piece is complete, I never look at it with the same passion. I still love (and hate) it, but there's so much less to see when you've already made all the decisions.

Need To Create Something Good

Inside of everyone, presumably, is an urge to do something meaningful.

But instead, because I don't believe in meaning, I'm trying to make good art -- which, somehow, I've convinced myself is purpose.

And I satisfy this urge probably any time I finish a piece, or at least in the following days while staring at it.

If I stare at it long enough, some hate also arises, which drives me to make more art. 

That hatred never goes too deep: I appreciate what I learned and being able to see the ideas I sat on for, most likely, a couple of weeks.

I keep bouncing between loving and hating a piece until it has been on my wall long enough. Then it feels like it always was. Like it being there is a fact of the universe. 

At that point, I lose the ability to love or hate it.

Hopefully, I never make anything too good. I wouldn't know what to do with myself. 

There's no reason to repeat yourself over and over if what you've already done is as good as it gets -- which would leave nothing else to do.

Bad Year Can't Complain

Comparing your state of mind from year to year seems nearly impossible. 

Last year might've been the worst year of my life (so far) because of some anxiety problems that now constantly seem present. 

It wouldn't surprise me if it were, but I'm uncertain how I could compare how I felt like as a 4, or 12-year-old. 

So, I'll settle for calling it just a bad year.

Maybe one of the worst things about it is that I've got it good in many ways; I work on so much satisfying art, live comfortably, and have little stress in my daily life. 

That may not sound bad to you, but it is -- now I feel like a loser when complaining. 

And complaining is one of the most fun things you can do.

Even Sober Months Disappear

I'm sure that humans invented language in part so that they could better complain about time going fast. 

So here's the obvious: somehow, it feels like, at least when looking back, every couple of seconds, a day passes. 

Habits are something my brain likes. When I was using drugs, this also quickly became a habit. While it was, time evaporated, and I spent much of it on useless dopamine machines.

In hopes of slowing down time, in part by spending it better, I decided to get sober. 

And now, even sober, spending my time better, months are disappearing.

Another Bird Over Water

Don't remember or care where, but I noticed a bird flying over water. What a free creature. Do you think it understands the depths it's flying over with such ease? Few do. 

It reminded me of another time (the 16th of September, 2022) when I saw a similar bird flying over similar water, and I decided to draw it (#386).

So now, because of that loser, I have to feel unoriginal about an idea I feel strongly about. But the joke's on that guy, I never was original. Only the insane ever do anything new, and I haven't lost it yet.

And that's the key: accepting there are probably four billion other people who have had the exact idea you feel so passionate about. 

If you're lucky, you'll convince some that you thought it better.

Another Lonely New Year

It's almost 12. I look outside and see groups of people coming from their apartments. Out of nowhere, I feel lonely. 

The feeling wasn't wrong; I had been alone all day, if not all week, but I usually don't feel like it.

Seeing those people reminded me of the parties I had been to in the past -- which I mostly hated going to. I didn't go to many.

People who like parties are faking it. At least, I can't understand it, other than it being an excuse for getting high (which, when I still got high, I had no trouble doing on my own).

I think I feel lonely, not because I'm not around people, but because I don't want to be.

Haven't Seen The Sun In A While

It's not like I haven't been trying. (Almost) every day, she knocks on my windows, but when I go outside, all I can find are clouds and their tears.

Maybe she's upset. In the summer, she worked long hours, seven days a week, but couldn't find me -- I was inside then. 

She gets too hot sometimes.

And also, my brain made me feel like I was about to explode. I decided that if an explosion were my fate, I'd rather have it be inside.

But now I ache for her warmth. Looking at trees, grassfields, and bodies of water without her around somehow always feels less beautiful. 

When the summer is back, I'll miss the gloomy days of the winter. Yet again, what makes me happy is complaining about what I can't have.

Until the sun returns, I'll hallucinate lush trees, free-flowing water, and green grass fields.

Nails Keep Growing

For a human, many annoying things are certain. Among those, the obvious are breathing, hunger, thirst, tiredness, labor, rent, taxes, buying anything, and death.

Anyone who does not experience all of those might be inside of a human body, but they're not human. In the same way, a church without God is only a building, and a forest without trees is simply a bare plane.

But the worst of the unavoidables is the growing of my nails.

Much too often, there comes a point where I realize they've grown much too long, a point where I have to get a nail cutter and always end up cutting them way too far.

Fighting Sleep (Like Valentijn)

My baby nephew Valentijn, like everyone else, gets tired sometimes. And when he does, his grandparents will prepare him for bed. 

When they do, he's always fighting them, which is ridiculous. His tiredness is unmistakable, and when he finally gets put to bed, he falls asleep instantly.

More ridiculous than that are the adults who, when they get tired, know they should get sleep but stay awake.

I'm a very responsible adult, so for me, this isn't an issue at all. I've got a job, meaning I need to wake up in time, so I'll get in bed early enough to get some good sleep.

But when I don't have my job the next day, I act just like my nephew, but unlike him, there's nobody to put me to bed except myself, so I stay awake, wasting so much of my precious free time for no good reason.

Clocks

During the workweek, I work a couple of very long days so that my weekends last longer. Any hour I spend making art, I need to waste at least 30 minutes, so having a lengthier weekend makes it easier to get art done. 

Now, for some reason, when I finally make it to the end of the week, I mostly spend it doing nothing satisfying: playing games or watching videos. Don't get me wrong, I get some art done, but I could accomplish much more.

I might as well merely sit in a chair, looking at a wall of clocks, where anytime I look at a different one, hours zoom by, wasted doing nothing but thinking: ""I should stop wasting my time."" Knowing I won't.

Beautiful Boring LIfe

Like everyone, I'm addicted to keeping myself entertained, meaning I almost always have some video and music playing. Even that often isn't enough, so I also frequently find myself scrolling through social media. 

I like walking, it's another good way to keep myself busy, though even while walking I'm always listening to something. Sometimes, often but not always, while sitting on a bench or during a walk, I remove my headphones, and I sit, look, and listen.

And it makes me feel some weird way that I don't know how to explain, but the best I can do is to call it the beauty of our boring lives.

Art inspired by the tranquil benches of Den Bosch. A testament to the beauty found in simple walks and the muse they provide. A homage to moments of reflection and creativity.

The Bench

Going for walks is one of the best hobbies I've got. It's undefeated not only because moving is healthy for a human (like me) but also because it's a great way to waste time, listen to music, and get ideas for art. 

There are many benches around Den Bosch with beautiful perspectives, or at least sights that have me convinced of their beauty, which is one thing I definitely do thank this city for.

Often while out and about I find myself sitting on one of those benches, with or without a piece of paper and a marker, looking at those beautiful sights. 

It's all meaningless and a waste of time, yet still mesmerizing and, more importantly, inspiring for my next piece of art I can waste even more time on.

This piece is dedicated to none specifically but all of those benches I've sat on before and will sit on in the future.

Explore Zen Dageraad's depiction of transformation with a pink butterfly amidst a vivid backdrop, capturing the essence of change & constancy.

Sobriety

In Zen Dageraad's evocative creation, a vivid pink butterfly takes center stage, contrasting beautifully with its background that transitions from a warm orange at the top to a serene green-blue below. The segmented shades used within both the butterfly and the backdrop lend depth and dimension, drawing viewers into the story behind the piece. Zen Dageraad reveals his journey of personal transition and self-discovery, reminiscent of the transformative phases of a caterpillar to a butterfly. After quitting a daily habit of smoking weed, the artist experienced a paradox: a significant change externally, yet feeling internally unchanged. This nuanced duality is captured with the butterfly, suggesting that while we may undergo profound transformations, our core essence remains intact.

Zen Dageraad's artwork captures Den Bosch's railway essence. Vivid red tracks, yellow beams & blue ground shapes accompany a poignant poem on wanderlust.

Railway

In the vibrant city of Den Bosch, an art piece captures the essence of movement and stillness, intertwined with the soul's yearning for adventure. Zen Dageraad, drawing from the hum of daily life, has crafted an image that resonates deeply with the wanderer in all of us. His piece portrays a striking red railway, each section painted with varying intensities, standing bold against yellow beams of light. This scene is further contrasted by a blue ground, meticulously divided into unique shapes, each filled with its own shade of blue. As one gazes upon this vivid depiction, the words come to mind: "watching the tracks, journeys flowing away. Yearning to go, yet anchored still in Den Bosch." This is not just art; it's an emotion, a call to the wanderlust that lies dormant within us.

Dive into Zen Dageraad's vibrant homage to rock legends, Hendrix and Morrison, through a Picasso-inspired psychedelic blues guitar scene. Explore now!

Psychedelic Blues

Immerse yourself in Zen Dageraad's mesmerizing representation of rock nostalgia and cubist influence. The centerpiece of the work is a large guitar, its blue hues ranging from dark outlines to a lighter body, emanating an ethereal quality. It stretches across the scene, its top barely visible, three vivid green strings cutting through its form, resonating with an unsung melody.

The backdrop reveals four walls, two darker and two lighter shades of green, playing with perceptions of space and depth. A yellow window punctuates the left wall, with a radiant pink sun painting everything in its path with a blush streak. The sun's psychedelic effects capture the essence of an era defined by the likes of Hendrix and Morrison, their music echoing in the silence of the room.

The central wall houses a purple door, a nod to the mystical and the unknown, a symbol of the Doors that initially sparked Dageraad's inspiration. Drawing from Picasso's 'Le vieux guitariste aveugle', the artwork invites the viewer into a realm where legendary musicians never grow old, their music forever resonating within the confines of this vibrant space.

Experience Zen Dageraad's artistic vision of his solitary confinement in his studio, brought to life with vibrant colors and intriguing symbolism.

Trapped In Studio

In Zen Dageraad's vivid interpretation of his week-long solitude, one feels the intensity of confinement. Bounded by yellow-outlined walls adorned with whimsical purple sketches, he brings his creations to life, echoing a feeling of being besieged. His artistry transforms the corners of the room into separate entities; the bottom left and top right walls cloaked in a midnight blue hue.

The centerpiece, slightly shifted to the left, is an eye painted in shades of azure, perched upon a contrasting green chair. The seat, casting a shadow of deep blue, seems to radiate an uncanny sentient aura. The eye, amidst the confinement, glows with anticipation and curious exploration.

To the right, an overhead lamp spills soft pink light across the room, playing on the chair, the diligent eye, and a table angled distinctively from the seat. This table, tinted with the same blue as the top-left wall, hosts a variety of brushes dipped in vibrant colors—pink, green, yellow, purple, and blue. They symbolize the artist's coping mechanism, creating amidst isolation, hinting at the brushes' role in manifesting this 'in-studio' entrapment.

Against the light blue backdrop of the floor, the shadowed furniture and multi-hued palette brings forth a tableau of immersive creativity birthed out of solitude and illness. Thus, Zen Dageraad's artwork captures the relentlessness of his own creations, a testimony of the artist confined, yet defiant in his own studio-museum.

Discover Zen Dageraad's color-rich interpretation of a quirky sight in Den Bosch. A playful mingling of hues creates a visually captivating story.

Feet Out A Window


Stroll through Zen Dageraad's vividly hued portrayal of an unusual sight in the charming town of Den Bosch, brought to life in distinctive colors. The artwork is dominated by a pair of yellow feet, etched with darker outlines, playfully dangling from an open window. The window sits amidst a building's facade, painted in soothing tones of light and dark red, contrasting against the surrounding vibrant pink and darker pink backgrounds.

The room beyond the open window is a serene light blue, with a striking orange lamp casting an intriguing hue on all objects within its reach. Two window panes, colored with light green, add a refreshing contrast, flanked by two closed windows adorned with a darker green backdrop.

The artwork resonates with the weirdly out-of-the-ordinary experience of finding such an unexpected sight on a calm Sunday morning. A unique spectacle captured in a whimsical fusion of color, portraying Den Bosch's diverse spirit.

Symbols

This piece showcases the power of symbols, employing them to narrate a compelling story in a simple yet profound manner.

Imagine the celestial Luna shedding tears, brilliantly juxtaposed with clouds, a manifestation of the boundless sky. These elements are not just visually enticing, but also imbue the artwork with a sense of depth and mystery. Each symbol tells a tale, and together, they weave an enchanting saga.

Venture further into the scene to discover a road, its destination shrouded in ambiguity as indicated by the sign. Is it a metaphor for life's uncertainties, or perhaps, a commentary on our collective journey? A figure, conspicuously located in the lower left corner, looks away from the road, seemingly detached from its directionless path.

Lastly, a modest chair and a tree are positioned, invitingly hinting at respite. But these aren't ordinary objects, they are symbols of comfort and tranquility, acting as a metaphorical invitation to 'sit down in the shade'.

Accompanying this visual narrative is a poem, whispering an invitation to simplicity and tranquility. The verses are a conversation, a seemingly innocent dialogue about pretending, about observing, and about embracing the ordinary. 'Have you met my sisters?', it asks, leaving us in contemplation.

This artwork is a testament to the transformative power of symbols, beautifully demonstrating how they allow art to communicate complex emotions and ideas in an easily graspable way. An intriguing blend of poetry and symbolism, it draws you in, encouraging you to delve deeper into its narrative layers.

10 Minute Wait

A captivating art piece that vividly depicts the fleeting nature of time and the anxiety that often accompanies anticipation. Rendered in a palette restricted to three primary colors - yellow, red, and blue - along with additional shades of dark blue and orange-pink, this piece is a visual representation of an individual’s struggle with time. The dark blue figure, ostensibly agitated, is seated on an orange-pink chair that casts a subtle shadow, suggesting the presence and passage of time.

At the core of this art is a poignant poem that resonates with the painting, encompassing the essence of the frustrating, yet sometimes zen-like moments of waiting.

In essence, #511 10 Minute Wait is an ode to the internal conflict that arises when the mind is torn between the present and the impending future.