Flanked by solitary
Fallen Angels, each subsequent painting presents a fetish angel - darkly
clad in tattoos and piercings, more beautiful for all their androgyny;
and a mortal in some passionate emotional state. They are the muses of
our joy and our pain.
She had a talent
that could drive the coolest, calmest soul to insanity. She dipped a silken
bush in pools of color and stroked a barren canvas with the acuteness of
a surgeon, the eye of a predator. And in the swirls of oil and water that
hovered in her pictures, something was born. An infant that no one could
catch sight of, a cherub that flew off the edge of every rainbow in the
world, a color that none had ever seen before. Try to describe a color
to a person blind from birth, try to make them see it. That is a prescription
for lunacy, and that is how she painted. The faces she immortalized over
and over again like white orchids in a field of roses, the eyes shone blue
and brown and green and colors that could not exist. A color no one could
explain, and so everyone that viewed her works of art felt alone and violated,
yet darkly satisfied, as if they had been raped by a phantom. ~ Ty