CAN’T IT GO AWAY?angels like cherry pits
in the sack of weeds-- how lines relax in the wake of summer. take this coral, make it bloom again in cooler hydrogen. stream in the basement, pastrami and swiss in the alley on microphone and asphalt. pocked, asleep, within the numbers lies no import, no import at all.
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Artist's StatementOne's work is a way of keeping a diary – said Picasso. The pictures reflect passing episodes. Lives and experiences expressed on canvas, with paints and brushes. My paintings can either refer to an episode that took place on a trip – a memory – or they can talk about food, or the cat that appeared on the roof. Or be simple ideas and concepts that pass in the moment. I usually use acrylic on the first layer, and oil on the following ones. Complement with oil pastel and oil stick. Sometimes I draw in pencil directly on the canvas, before starting to paint; other times I go directly to brush strokes, applying paint - on canvas or paper - with a brush, without any previous sketch. I rarely paint with spatulas. The painting is built with successive layers. Occasionally a first and only layer is enough. It's rare but it happens. During the paintings I can carry out abundant studies before moving on, before taking any decisive step, and I use the computer for planning. I don't always choose colours. Without looking, I pick up a tube of paint at random from inside the paint box. The colour that comes, is the one that will be used. But the colour that comes defines which point of the picture is painted. If it comes in blue, maybe it's the left corner. If it comes in yellow, maybe paint the top. Here is an intuitive process. All colours are beautiful, and they understand each other, it is the human eye that gives them more value or not. And there are a lot of human eyes. Additionally, I dedicate myself to writing and photography, in travel chronicles that can be seen on my website. Some of my paintings reveal episodes of these trips, trips that are normally made by bicycle, alone, in destinations in Africa, Asia, America, Australia and Europe. I am currently undertaking a Master's Degree in Painting, at Fine Arts Faculty of Lisbon University. List of Works01 - “Darkness” 2020 Acrylic on canvas 73 x 60 cm (29 x 24 inches) 02 - Christmas Cave, Lava Tube – Terceira island, Azores 2021 Oil on paper 29,7 x 40,7 cm (11,7 x 16 inches) plus the frame 03 – Pompons 2020 Acrylic on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 04 - “I Will Not Have Flowers in my Grave. Because I Won't Have a Grave” 2020 Acrylic and oil pastel on canvas 70 x 100 cm (28 x 39 inches) 05 - “The Stream of the Subconscious” 2020 Acrylic and oil pastel on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 06 - The Island 2020 Acrylic on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 07 - The Island (II) 2020 Acrylic and oil on canvas 116 x 81 cm (46 x 32 inches) 08 - The Island (III) 2020 Oil on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 09 - In the Forest of Principe Island 2020 Acrylic, oil and oil pastel on paper 29,7 x 40,7 cm (11,7 x 16 inches) plus the frame “The best of all is that I constantly hear the rustle of large animals around me. Well, a human can't be, he can't walk in this tangle of forest he or she would have to come down the road. I look in the direction of the rustling between the bushes and the trees, but I see nothing. What animals are these? Wild pigs? Goats? Monkeys? They are big! They make as much or more noise than me. These are not 10 cm geckos. They break branches in their passage and are fast. But here in Principe there is nothing to fear, there are no dangerous animals. A thousand little eyes are watching me, for sure. (...) I will reach the end of my journey! If the forest does not close completely, I will get there! Decidedly , no one has been here for years. The forest is becoming increasingly inhospitable. Its weight increases on me. It’s more and more closed, darker, more and more humid. Mosquitoes are voracious. And the wound stings my foot . But I want to continue, I am 100% determined to continue”. Chronicle 19 of Sao Tome and Principe: https://rutenorte.com/sao-tome-e-principe/550-km-de-bicicleta-sozinha-29-dias-019/ Google Translator" button in the upper right corner of website. 10 - Atauro Island II 2021 Acrylic, oil, wax, oil pastel and oil stick on unstretched canvas 91 x 126 cm (36 x 49,6 inches) This painting accompanies a travel chronicle I wrote: Chronicle 61 of East-Timor: “The Coral Triangle covers areas within six countries East Timor, Indonesia, the Philippines, Malaysia, Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea. It is shaped like a triangle because scientists have identified that these are the limits that outline the epicenter of marine biodiversity on Planet Earth. (...) It’s here that there is the greatest diversity of corals in the world (...). The dive lasted 56 minutes, and we went down to 57 feet deep. We did about 1300 feet horizontally . There aren’t words to describe what I saw. I saw a colorful world, full of colorful fish. 80 degrees water”. RUNA
www.instagram.com/rute_norte (Facebook is for travels: www.facebook.com/Rute.Norte.Travels/ IntroductionEach poem in the full twenty-poem sequence
takes its first line from one of the poems in Cicely Mary Barker’s Flower Fairies of the Winter (Frederick Warne, 1985); my titles merely strip out the framing text, leaving the plants’ names (as, for example, “The Song of the Snowdrop Fairy”. Barker had produced books for Spring, Summer, and Autumn, but the Winter book was published posthumously, made up of poems and illustrations from her other works, in order to fill the gap in the seasons. For the most part I simply used the first line as a jumping-off point, with little or no reference to the original poem; occasionally (when the line’s tweeness overwhelmed me) I found myself injecting a certain cynical or debunking tone or content. AngularPigeon measuring my gaze
from the electric wire. Curiosity mirrored, my eyes holding the bird’s gaze. Warmth glows from my pineal gland. Yellow waft flashes mangoes in my mind. The sky has spread its light blue carpet. As I walk on, I wonder if the bird remains on the right side. I turn and it’s gone. About to jog I look at the lamppost, remembering - light curving, the post aglow like a sleepy eye. SINISTER DREAMIn dreams she was left-handed
and her hair often changed color when her body turned over. Pillows didn’t seem to matter. She would use her right hand to sign because—in dreams—you can’t hear. She often dreams you here to write music for her left hand while she chooses lyrics from signs painted on hotel walls. The colors are artfully fading. All that matters is seeing the same word, over and again. Dreams are terse. They don’t cover plot. Melodies—all hers to hear-- one note with one hand. Notes matter to the ear hiding in her left hand. She’ll spell them to you. Their colors change constantly. Her grand design is to draw you with her. You’ll sign a pledge to be her perpetual lover and to tease her hair into loud colors that you see but she can’t hear. You help her rule her left hand and they must put an end to matters large and small. Whatever’s the matter with her dreamt self is a sign that she can’t decode, like left-handed cursive. She starts to read and starts over. You hold her hand. She’s glad you’re here-- deaf, quite unable to read colors like palms. She rolls right. The colors flash and settle on blue. It doesn’t matter towards morning. Her body tense to hear an alarm (your kiss, your song, your sign). Early light and a day that’s not over Until she wakes her sleepy left hand. Then coffee matters. The flashing sign, repeating colors outside. Just over sunrise. You hear trucks. The drivers are left-handed. FIRST WALKFrom out of endless sex, below that shivery curtain of concealed nurse's faces, a screaming
mother -can you help me to walk? I ask. From that moment, a landscape, a lullaby of blood, a tense audience to first steps and I keep stumbling as the rows of spectators clasp hands, breathe out like long legs doomed to trip me - as if my very first human step will crush them - ironic, that they smile genuinely when I emerge from flabby body to move forward another clumsy foot - nothing special, and still they cheer my movement, toes grasping at the polished floor or stepping between swords, knees giving in to gasps, hands grabbing at a sofa leg, just imitate, says my head, just imitate, bewildered by the feedback from my balance, but pressing on - nothing too difficult about this floor, surely, but to a nestling? As I collapse in a chubby pink lump, more cheap applause from the past that made me. ConvocationMid-morning late-August, sweating already in our too-tight jeans sitting here in slack
discomfort. The convocation speaker, bald and male, and in every otherwise clichéd, academically gowned, certified mundane. Silver-tongued he is not. The timeless pattern these obligations are meant to be. Full of generic boredom, bland declarative sentences float in hot toxic air over our heads toward the auditorium ceiling. I cannot suppress a yawn as flutters of orange and yellow butterflies escape from my mouth. A pretty girl beside me giggles, cupping from around my head whole handfuls of whirling lepidoptera. Her long blonde hair is jeweled in dappled white and blue butterflies as she smiles knowingly at me. And maybe the speaker too has mentioned something jokingly about the butterflies in his stomach as he apologizes for traditionally boring us so on such a beautiful August day, wasting our time in here listening to him. And as I yawn once more out roars a Pearl-Orange Harley Mirage Sportster, black and purple-edged butterflies painted on the gas tank, laughter bellowing out of its blinding chrome exhausts. Now the whole audience is hooting and clapping, on their feet and smiling as the beautiful blonde, with all the world’s butterflies still in her hair, and I climb up on the Harley. Cracking the throttle I lift the gleaming bike into a wheelie and up the aisle we varooom to hell outa there. Trailing Monarchs, Swallowtails, and Painted Ladies, vivid and iridescent, into the clear August day. Still Thinking of TravelThat austere beauty
a monument to stupidity: they cut down all the trees. Then for centuries they were owned, hungry, tough, stunted, religious, ill. Volcanoes and earthquakes, two continental plates rending a rockfield. Roots like cobras thread the voluptuous ruins. Only fools and rude children stop smiling. The Buddha encourages some killing. Wear white crisp short-sleeve shirts to the demo. A certain kind of hysterics is reserved for soldiers. But for the most part I stay home. When fever comes, a wet, cold – very cold – washcloth descends on my brow, and for the never-expected allover shaking cold, one that is well-wrung and warm, my eyes shut tight throughout. Two lovers meet in solitude of a damp alleyway, they stand silhouetted against a backdrop of burning moons and embattled stars flaming final glory across an endless night of dead space – embrace and click open an ornate cigarette case extending narcotic tube long and obscenely flexible. Twisting proboscises probe one another in passionate clinging, curl up like narcotic smoke in a hazy grey dawn of embers burning out and dropping to the ground mud-stained and metallic. Two lovers melt down into effluvium – let loose the clothes in hasty fumbling of pants and underdrawers – breath of rotten ectoplasm mingles with the blood and pus and sweat of an expectant orifice dripping venereal excitement. Ankles up about the ears, slither jelly on cock and asshole – states of love in fading grey dawn, moons burning out to luscious embers – shimmering translucent skin sheds snakelike in a trail of liquid jelly – makes you feel good just to see it... pubescent eyes from window and fire-escape jack off in fantastic frenzy arcing vibrant jets of jism in all the colours of the rainbow...
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