Banksy-moi, entre deux mondes...(20/11)

Rendez-vous avec Lynch et doghead...(18/4)

The drawing world of David Lynch...

Heatme, Hitme...(18/7)

Heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me, heat me and heat me, woo, vaporised...my lesson 1 of cubism...

Cesky Krumlov...(26/5)

A conventional blog consists usually information about the blogger's favourite 'this' and favourite 'that'...I was thinking of since long time ago having a review of my own about all those artists and figures I admire like Dostovski, Tarkovski, Keislowski, Jack, Jessemine, Nico etc. And among them, Egon Schiele would be one of them.

I visited Cesky Krumlov where Schiele stayed for a year or two to develop his works and his tribute to the village environment. Visualising the town away from the paintings of Schiele provides me another spectrum of appreciation to his adaptation of colours and mood to his a few paintings on the landscape of the village. There is an Egon Schiele Museum in the town which possesses a small scale display of his works and story. This is the third exhibitions I saw on the artist after a large scale one held in Amsterdam last year and another one on Vienna Movement at the Grand Palais in Paris a few months ago. Obviously the one I visited last year is the most in-depth one. The focus of the three exhibitions are different, and reading how the biography of the artist was written from the three exhibitions is interesting. There is a significant difference on the focus of writing, and judging from the information provided from each exhibition, you would get a feel of how the exhibition organisers value the works of Schiele and how they would offer a perception to the visitors.

Les couleurs d'amour...(3/5)

They are the substance of the world, a weight of silence silhouette...I improvise my world with a pitch of colour spectrum and when I indulge myself into the tiny holes of emptiness, I actually feel the joy. Nature is a pronoun of negligence, or should I regard this as an interpretation of how the me is constructed in front of every any other me.

Brownie sweet, orange road, pinky mania, golden era, love me live, live me love.

I let myself lie down on a soft grassfield where only death comes before live. I stare at the invisible paints I have drawn. I may smile, cheerful leaves.

Send me home, to the only place where I can depart again.

Hallelujah...(2/1)

(a piece inspired by Grace of Jeff Buckley, 1994)
seems to get love
no no no no...
god sends the children from up
down to the world it dumps
a world of soul
morning a day that gets old
a whispering song it plays it goes

if a step can go further on a way
if i can get a chance to choose my gate
hand in the fate
go and pick the star from the lazy sky
hanging in the air a current of why

it's bleeding day and night
if i step out before it steps in its right
oooo
a portrait of the light
gloomy and slight
eternity starts in a shelter you never think of

the feather goes up and up
like the flight
no one looks back
a string tights the kite
unstable, irrational
rising the voice to call a name

a spoiling moment
what is the past that last
a broken curtain closes a part of my eye
the shadow casts
my inner soul

there is no time for a second thought
when we march we march
tell the circuit that electrons flow
am i going to mess it
a flow that never flows
yeah

a total release onto the hitting wall
bang bang
a sound so sound, a while so wild
a violence of love
a peace of silence
picture goes wider and wider
don't know what is watching me

a way to go further
the film stays still
a butterfly flaps its wing
a wing of dream

the oriental bell
a ring that waits for the dusk
tender fits
love hurts
stay, stay
I call your name
because your voice keeps going till day end

a panaramic view from the cable car
high in the air
perhaps it's getting cool
I should give the light blessings
a therapy to hide
action is all that should avoid
it breathes
like what was I

A Year...(1/1)

Year passes year...
Nowhere a stop the gear
the bird is crowned in fear
how much the one can bear
not only time steals no tear
year passes year
history murmurs in weird
daylight goes into cheers
with the bitter beer
further down to get near
year passes year