The first painting is in a gold frame, neat and perfect, so grand and precious that almost untouchable, but only if you gaze to pass by. If you stop to gaze, ponder over and stay quiet, you start to see the flaw. The shining plastic layer disappears and you get to see the cracks everywhere. Just like a true realization, this happens really slowly. Colours, the violet, the reddest of red, the emerald green and the deep yellow look sad and ready to shed away anytime, at any moment. But the gold frame, a trickster, keeps the colours together, dead or alive and manages to pose for eons.
Another painting, without a frame, but nevertheless with rough and sudden boundaries, looks straight at you, making you pause. Amongst the faded attempts of all the colours to present an impeccable tale, rich hazel brush strokes alone in the painting gives it the eyes to express. Eyes that make you wonder and leave you awestruck. This perforated paper then becomes a memory collector.
A painting without limits exists. The colours are pensive, silky and bright, almost invisible. Seeping everywhere, every moment, the painting is.
“And she drank herself into oblivion.”