Pink smoke

When I think of love, there is a turmoil of persons in my head, people meshing into people, and the great de-personification e re-personification of feeling. What does that mean? When I say LOVE, a face comes to mind, and another face follows, and then on, in a parade of loved ones and de-loved ones. The great rose coloured theme, the symbol the encompasses this feeling, this parade, this collection of memory... that is abstraction. The thing in itself might just as well be a phenomenon of electro-chemical-neural activity that collects into emergent properties and make me think and feel what I feel, I, a collection of atoms bouncing to a rhythm, I, chunk of animate meat. But that is the question: to be or not to be, animation, anima, soul. I, you see, I am, and this am is alive, I am alive, apart from all other predicates of I, I am alive. And love, this flandering, this flawed, fleeting, floating thing is like mortar to the rocks and bones and atoms of this body, it is energy, it is feeling, and abstraction, and free association in a mirror and a parade of faces. A flash, a glimpse, a mist, a blurr. Like pink smoke, caramel smelling smoke.

Brooklyn Wheelan : ALPINE SYSTEM - B
Acrylic on stretched canvas. 112cm x 112cm (44.1” x 44.1”). 2018. Signed en verso.