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Artist's Description:
This piece is a Venus sculpture drawn on a vibrant hot pink background. The tropical leaves around her seem to almost cover her body, but it never fully shadows. Nudes have always been the most intriguing object for me to draw, because I think they are the most beautiful thing that could exist on earth. We all should never feel shameful about our curves, and our curved body; the symbol of femininity. And not only women, but each individuals must love their physical specialties. We should all be proud of our natural body. Artist's Description:
This piece is a depiction of wildflowers that do not exist in reality. The unreal flowers were used to not to limit the imagination of the audience. Vivid flowers are patternlessly arranged on a dark navy colour for a contrast. I wanted to tell that all the brightness of the world can be itself only if the darkness is there, in a more dramatic way. It may be seen as quite depressing and disturbing, but just as how brightness depends on the darkness, it reveals that dark still coexist with the light. While it is very common to only think of just one single thing, and consider everything else as extra complexity of the whole picture, I wanted to find the tranquility under complications. The day I name the way
a maze it begins to own a bit of me, and I lay my claim on a patch of its length that circles an overgrown shrub, the time-eaten wall and a shameless body of muddy water. At one point I feel the desire to leave the maze drying, dying. From hollow in my abdomen an eclipse of moths swirl out. Trigger Warning: Blood and gore depiction
Ingredients/parts
Directions Take out all the ingredients and place them on your counter./I'm lying naked in a labour room. Soak the flowers with cold water./Waiting for my flower to be soaked. Add hot, boiling water to the teapot./I tell them water's boiling, baby, alive. Add apple slices into the pot and chop them with a wooden spoon./They remove my silverskin from ribs. Whisk in the chamomile flowers and 2 cups of boiling water./I can't see anymore, my ba-, do-, ple, ali VVVEEE, pls. Let it steep for 2-3 minutes./They say it's my new life. Pour the tea into two cups and enjoy it with honey./Little do they know, it's the first living funeral of the dead If ever a symbol of us existed,
It would be your car A car made of cursory confessions Stored under seats Pinky promises stretched across our chests, Become the only seat belts we'll ever need The day's insecurities tossed in the back (you think we'd be more careful with our worst fears) Fastest routes are forgotten with a touch to your thigh And this car, your car, A car made of hollowed out Starbucks cups And McDonald's fumes Intertwined with the smoke of bad decisions Has become shelter From the storms slipping through our fisted fingers Because I swore on the Bible that I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, and God always knows when I lie. Because I want to be clean; clean as a blade through skin, a church pew before Sunday service, a wooden rosary worn smooth by years of wandering fingertips. Because the Bible says “respect thy mother and father,” even if you have a father who loves Jim Beam and the crack of a belt more than he loves Jesus. Because the only burning I can stand is the carpeted kneeler in the prison church rubbing my knees raw. Because there is no second baptism. Because there is no one else to pray for my sister, Mary, who is neither a virgin nor a mother, who had no messenger of God to tell her “do not be afraid” when she felt that first wriggle inside the most sacred parts of herself. Because after a month of good behavior, I was rewarded with a paperback copy of the Bible, its delicate pages spread on my pillow like angel wings. You look at your mom, smiling at you, and you realize that you will never get to live with her as
a child ever again. The next time you see her, you’ll be an adult and she’ll be old. That’s the pain of loving somebody, you want things to stay the same forever just when it gets good. You look at my mom the moment before you move across the world to be born again. Just this time, it’s not from her womb. You see her smiling face. She used to tell you stories about when she was your age, and one day you’ll tell her the same stories she told you. You won’t run into her in the house anymore. You won’t eat her meals. You wont get to run to her when a laundry problem arises. But you know she’ll stay right there in the same place she has always been, and when you come back, she’ll see how much you’ve grown. We went that day
specially to see her childhood home. We weren’t sure what state it would be in and so we didn’t say anything as the Uber travelled across the city to a very different part that my mother had once known like the back of her hand. My father, at one point, exclaimed – “It is not there! It is gone. Your house. She Was Only Five Years Old And Sweet
Young Naive Damsel And Ambitious I Bet She Had Bright Future And Big Dreams She Felt Comfortable And Safe Around You She Looked At You As Her Hero And Protector What Do You See When You Look In The Mirror What Did You See When You Look At Her What Came To Your Mind When She Cries Are Her Tears Not Transparent Enough To See Pain How Does If Feels Murdering An Innocent Soul In her green dress flowing around
her If I’m dead to you, why are you at the wake? Cursing my name, wishing I stayed I wish I wasn’t dead to you, because you’re still at my wake I can’t curse your name, and I wish you stayed Millions singing along with her, and I hope they relate I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want, just not home And she falls to the ground, on her knees, desperate You would be my home for as long as I remember you And without you, I’m free but without a home And I wish I couldn’t relate |