After jaw dropping at his work, I said to the metal artist;
" I love the metal butterflies, and the dragonflies, and the metal insects."
"Aaah, women choices," said he.
'I mean, the concept, I've only seen paper butterflies before." I explain.
"These are more durable," he stated.
My heart sunk, but I moved on thinking, oh well, I've come to an art shopping mall, nkt.
Until I met the artists, not art sellers.
There was this painting by a young man, at the brush tu stand, I forgot his name. The painting was -fortress of solitude- I didn't take a picture, it described my feelings too much.
He told me he painted emotions.
As the artists patiently explained their pieces, I felt I did the right thing to come.
Like the -Domestic revelations- which were deeper than I had experienced, just looking..
When I started blogging on the literary folder I had the firm belief that- it's a writer that knows his story, it's his business to write it-
The stories I write, they want to get out. If I don't let them out I get stuck, and impatient.
An artist exposes himself to criticism; when in a moment of clear thought, his brush and paint pair and move in harmony. It is a gift to be able to paint what is in the mind, I have wished I could.
My stories, my babies,
No one can get within me and understand the formation of words. The way at times words, phrases and expressions go zip- zapping in my mind like discordant music. Only I can collect, sort and align them.
And not without difficulty.
For each story demands its own set of thread, canvas and frame.
Some stories come out in sighs, some need lots of visuals,
some are enveloped in many tears.
While some form in the mind for months.
Planted, needing harvesting.
Otherwise they get thick undergrowth and make me edgy.
On my way out I saw a talking T-shirt- Rasta ni wewe it said- we smiled at each other.
" I love the metal butterflies, and the dragonflies, and the metal insects."
"Aaah, women choices," said he.
'I mean, the concept, I've only seen paper butterflies before." I explain.
"These are more durable," he stated.
My heart sunk, but I moved on thinking, oh well, I've come to an art shopping mall, nkt.
Until I met the artists, not art sellers.
There was this painting by a young man, at the brush tu stand, I forgot his name. The painting was -fortress of solitude- I didn't take a picture, it described my feelings too much.
He told me he painted emotions.
As the artists patiently explained their pieces, I felt I did the right thing to come.
Like the -Domestic revelations- which were deeper than I had experienced, just looking..
 | |||||
| when you dig some more; you see the real color- David Thuku |
When I started blogging on the literary folder I had the firm belief that- it's a writer that knows his story, it's his business to write it-
The stories I write, they want to get out. If I don't let them out I get stuck, and impatient.
An artist exposes himself to criticism; when in a moment of clear thought, his brush and paint pair and move in harmony. It is a gift to be able to paint what is in the mind, I have wished I could.
My stories, my babies,
No one can get within me and understand the formation of words. The way at times words, phrases and expressions go zip- zapping in my mind like discordant music. Only I can collect, sort and align them.
And not without difficulty.
For each story demands its own set of thread, canvas and frame.
 |
| this one got it right; it is impossible to dream without a feline about. |
Some stories come out in sighs, some need lots of visuals,
some are enveloped in many tears.
While some form in the mind for months.
Planted, needing harvesting.
Otherwise they get thick undergrowth and make me edgy.
On my way out I saw a talking T-shirt- Rasta ni wewe it said- we smiled at each other.
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