The flow maintains the meaning and the suspicion still exists.Among the meanders that delimit the districts of this huge hive,They ask me, from what waters do I come?I come from the mountains not the water.Like water comes from the mountain.And from the rain… the sky and the haze.
We are all immerse in the cycle, in different places.
And I, in the surface, float on my ignorance.
I barely remember my voice among unpronounceable tones.
They are water sounds.
At the rhythm of a motorbike.
And at facing movement, there’s nothing left to do but to relax our shoulders and follow the river.
Strangeness does not stop.
The smell of myth is present.
Between durian and Jasmin tea.
The image that I’m looking for surrounds a common origin.
They are the columns that sustain faith.
The scales that draw the connection between heaven and earth.
It is the water.
It is the eastern dream
It is the image of these rivers.
The statue have not died yet.
The live image that has not still been entered in art.
Praying is the image.
The image are the ancestors.
It is the people.
In the frame, everything is balanced,
the asymmetry of our own bodies.
The offerings that gives us back our nourishment.
The motor reverberates
and the branches accumulate.
Drawing makes me familiar.
In stillness, the ritual is remembered.
The air becomes visible
The spirits manifest.
In the middle of the fog, my eyes become flustered.
It is intuition that finds me again, to follow the after the sign.
The myth responds to the landscape.
Trees grow like rivers.
The rock falls as ideologies do.
And surely, the statue is already in the museum.
While time shapes spiral forms.
