We had a conversation yesterday, one of my tutors and I, and she asked if my writing reflects my painting (or experimenting in painting), or vice-versa.
I could not answer, because I am still painting and writing.
Both practices go hand-in-hand.
I don't know what I am going to paint as much as I know that I don't know what I am going to write, because I feel I am only the vessel for the story.
In the meantime, I keep on writing and I keep on experimenting with painting.
"I am struck by the memory of boiled beef, tongue and legs of chicken, with spicy fruit mustard and cabbage. Melting in my mouth when I was a child. This is how I knew that winter was coming. Winter was my name. My mother would dress the house in red and gold and we would eat things that tasted of juniper and red wine and strong laurel and tough game. I close my eyes and I remember the hairy stems of dying blood-red pelargoniums, my mother's favourite, and the smoothness of polished richly inlaid walnut furniture I learned to dust. I open my eyes and that old world, which seems it belongs to another era, is now gone. My claudicant table is pine, unpolished and covered by a mixture of a non-correlated random object. It smells of… of honey! My table smells of honey. I have killed the child. The child is dead. Long live the woman. Long live honey. I feed the cat and I go back to bed. Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien, Sinome maruvan are Hildinyar, Tenn’ Ambar-metta, I hum to myself while walking upstairs."
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