Migration
(sold)
I have a feeling I forgot to log out of a folder that’s been open since 1988.
It’s been watching me ever since.
Fall
(70x90cm, acrylics)
When I found that booklet of tickets from twelve years ago —
two unused ones still tucked inside, unexpired —
it occurred to me that, with a simple deformation retract,
I could fold time over
and go back with my then-babies
to those swings and swing some more.
All the way back to that last Sunday in the park.
Little did I know we’d never go again —
or that those two tickets would remain,
safely tucked in that drawer,
the “just in case, one day, maybe” drawer.
Sitting on Mesh
(45cmx4mc, acrylics and mesh)
I can imagine what it will be like—the day the Newspaper Man dies.
People will say they always noticed him.
In fact, even now, as they pass him each day,
they’re already drafting those tragic passages in their heads.
They know exactly how he’ll die:
how cold he’ll be when they find him.
But only she knows he has another life.
That his kids, who live in Australia,
send him money regularly.
That he, like her, is a quiet voyeur of the street—
fishing for stories.
That he remembers everyone’s name,
everyone’s life story.
That he keeps a walking diary—colorful and alive.
That his memory is vibrant.
That, like her, he’s been having fun all along