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Art is emotion. Emotion, initiated by the artist, without being aware of it. Colors have a loving relationship with man as sich. Sitting in front of my easel, I want it to be a loving day.
I see through my studio window that autumn is trying to sneak away, away from winter. The winter smiles at her. A little longer and her discolored fingers will stiffen and winter will eagerly want to pull her to him in a chilling embrace.
It should be a loving day. The autumn wind whispers cold, clammy words in winter’s ears. He smiles as snowflakes puff away from his mouth. Nature is slowly stiffening up, trying to keep winter away from it.
Autumn has turned the trees into bunches of black stakes, pointing seemingly lifelessly to the gloomy sky. The carpet of leaves around the trees rustles and shuffles.
On this loving day, when the wavering rays of the sun try to penetrate the morning fog, I walk aimlessly through my beloved city. The trees therein have turned into dark menacing creatures. The people like fleeing shadows in between.
Autumn’s discolored fingers touch me. I don’t want her fingers to stiffen. Try to warm her fingers in my hands. Her fingers slip away from my hands. Winter does not yet manage to embrace her.
This day, when my thoughts have lingered chilled in the air, I try to find myself…
