Just a worn out face with wine-stained lips and cigarette breathe. I will never stop laughing at my young naïve self for thinking life would be a soft stroke of paint, preparing for a masterpiece to be revealed.
Instead my brush broke through the canvas and the paint was splattered all over the floor. So I kept trying to paint new pieces, narrowing this image in my head. Craving to create something better, something worth wall space.
Somewhere down the line, I realized I cannot pretend and imitate, cannot trace and colour in-the-lines. At the end of the day, that beautiful mess on the floor is me; the chaos and ruin will always be me.
It defines me
That is what raw art is right?
Something you never want to look at, but cannot keep your eyes off of.