Nocturnal Tropikana
2013, acrylic on glas
Nocturnal Tropikanas take time. Your eyes need to let go of light and your senses need to adjust to the scented darkness and phosphorescent flora. I have barely entered and I’m already picking wild seeds from my hair and peeling off layers of unknown vegetation.
The night opens up like a ripe fruit, it smells like a flower. It is dense like fresh air that dilates you from the inside, hard to breathe because it is so pure, my dutiful lungs having long forgotten the magic of these simple processes The soles of my feet are unfamiliar with the texture of these organic strata, infinitely overlapping. This roughness makes you feel like an animal. I am an animal.
The foliage unfolds, layer by layer, in a fresh green kaleidoscope, metallically marked by strange flowers. The absence of light, its refuge in glowing spots makes everything incandescent, mysterious and fearsome. I seem to want to get lost and to see what happens where everything mostly hides and where guides are scarce; they speak in breath bouts and gestures and are not helpful in making you escape but only in pervading even further. I want to undress and in my bare ass, to be whipped by every fern. I deserve it because I am estranged and I am ready to harden my skin and to suffer sweetly.
Rousseau did it beautifully.
The night opens up like a ripe fruit, it smells like a flower. It is dense like fresh air that dilates you from the inside, hard to breathe because it is so pure, my dutiful lungs having long forgotten the magic of these simple processes The soles of my feet are unfamiliar with the texture of these organic strata, infinitely overlapping. This roughness makes you feel like an animal. I am an animal.
The foliage unfolds, layer by layer, in a fresh green kaleidoscope, metallically marked by strange flowers. The absence of light, its refuge in glowing spots makes everything incandescent, mysterious and fearsome. I seem to want to get lost and to see what happens where everything mostly hides and where guides are scarce; they speak in breath bouts and gestures and are not helpful in making you escape but only in pervading even further. I want to undress and in my bare ass, to be whipped by every fern. I deserve it because I am estranged and I am ready to harden my skin and to suffer sweetly.
Rousseau did it beautifully.