Buried Alive?

When I was still quite young I found a dead worm on the paving stones of our garden. Feeling sad that the poor thing didn't even manage to die in the earth where it usually lives, I decided to bury it. Later on in the day, or perhaps it was the day after, and for some reason I can't quite remember, I decided to have a look at the worm and see if it was still there. It had disappeared. I still feel somewhat cheated out of a presumably unnecessary burial.

To Live

Living is a delicate art in which the connoisseur delves between the realms of a fluctuating balance of extravagance and that of circumstantial respect. It dances with an almost electric flair, only solemnised by the exchange of its forbidden lust between light and shadow and the subtle and overt. 

On a canvas of mixed medium we draw on the scaffold of our paint, and in the eruption of colour in the primed mundane, there is a pulsating subterfuge within the streaky silhouettes of neglect. There are no limits, no rules, and the only code that governs this display is the intuition with which we explore. There are secrets beneath the rivulets of coloured rapport as each breath aligns curiosity with reprieve, and it is within this regal expression of an un-curated spate wherein lays the exuberance of life itself.