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[Ghandi]

Any constructive criticism or light editing greatly appreciated

Aşık Mene'nin "Hafıza ve Nisyan/Hatıra ve Nisyan" sergisi


Circling gingerly around the eighteen paintings they begin to blend into one and look closer at me, than I dare look at them. I feel fragile, vulnerable. Shot by framed melancholy, I awaken. My skin rises, to meet the cold.

A painting on a black canvas scrutinizes me, and asks “How tender is life?” Closing my eyes and then reopening them, a wave of sentiment volts my body. Asik appears staring. I feel his wish for the wistful.

Looking closer at his reflections, circular notions of time flow into a chaos. The characters howl. Cypriots stand in chains as Asik warns us of fading beauty.

What is the architect of our future?

A canvas answers Capitalism. Money buying lives. An existence that leaves us only shadows of ourselves, our arms and legs being moved by puppeteers.

How can we build something, when an unwanted Mother owns our ground, an unhelpful neighbor our sky a selfish world our breath?

Let us own ourselves, I whisper.

Livers and Hearts, appear in the art, when they collapse, we die. Yes, but we are more than our organs, we are a spirit. One that lives on. Death is nothing but to remember life.

Time stands still. I’m alone, surrounded by a sick community. The past and the future meet, pressing their lips violently.

I stand in the middle. My past clear, my future hazy. Scared of my own life’s footprints.

Tired I step outside and sit. I imagine children playing, families eating, and time moving. A garden full of laughter stares back empty except for a territorial cat that claws at the trees roots.

She looks at me with deep insistent eyes. I look away and read the USAID board; it says “That the house had fallen into serious disrepair from once being the heart of a community. She lay deformed and decayed, and through great struggle, has become beautiful enough, to open her arms to her community again”.

Raising my arms I surrender to an unknown past. My heart feels my people.

The tragic archetype of human loss is lack, loss and finality. Asik objects to the lie that everything is lost.

Art anticipates. Cypriots march. The magic of going to war for what one believes in makes me whisper freely” Let us own ourselves”.

[kurupetos]

[Ghandi]

Hopefully the second draft is more exciting

[Get Real!]

What subject is this… gibberish?

[supporttheunderdog]

In the UK Private Eye Magazine they have a section called "Psued's Corner" - This looks like a candidate for inclusion.

[Filitsa]

Any constructive criticism or light editing greatly appreciated

Aşık Mene'nin "Hafıza ve Nisyan/Hatıra ve Nisyan" sergisi


Circling gingerly around the eighteen paintings, they begin to blend into one and look closer at me than I dare look at them. I feel fragile, vulnerable. Shot by framed melancholy, I awaken. My skin rises, to meet the cold.

A painting on a black canvas scrutinizes me and asks “How tender is life?” Closing my eyes and then reopening them, a wave of sentiment jolts my body. Asik appears staring. I feel his wish for the wistful.

Looking closer at his reflections, circular notions of time flow into a chaos. The characters howl. Cypriots stand in chains as Asik warns us of fading beauty.

What is the architect of our future? A canvas answers capitalism, money buying lives, an existence that leaves us only shadows of ourselves, our arms and legs being moved by puppeteers.

How can we build something when an unwanted "mother" owns our ground, an unhelpful neighbor our sky, a selfish world our breath? "Let us own ourselves," I whisper.

Livers and hearts appear in the art. When they collapse, we die. Yes, but we are more than our organs; We are a spirit. One that lives on. Death is nothing but to remember life.

Time stands still. I’m alone, surrounded by a sick community. The past and the future meet, pressing their lips violently.

I stand in the middle, my past clear, my future hazy. Scared of my own life’s footprints.

Tired, I step outside and sit. I imagine children playing, families eating, and time moving. A garden full of laughter stares back empty except for a territorial cat that claws at the trees roots.

She looks at me with deep insistent eyes. I look away and read the USAID board. It says, “the house had fallen into serious disrepair from once being the heart of a community. She sits deformed and decayed and through great struggle has become beautiful enough to open her arms to her community again”.

Raising my arms I surrender to an unknown past. My heart feels my people.

The tragic archetype of human loss is lack, loss and finality. Asik objects to the lie that everything is lost. The second loss becomes redundant.

Art anticipates. Cypriots march. The magic of going to war for what one believes in makes me whisper freely, ”Let us own ourselves”.

A few remarks, if I may: 1)It's my opinion that personification and metaphor are effectively crafted; 2) "Asik" is a poignant name choice as well as the role he plays, 3) I removed a few commas and combined a couple of stanzas for tone and conistency respectively; 4) whereas art imitates life, I'm having some difficulty understanding how "art anticipates;" and 5) the tone is "wistful;" forget exciting.

[Get Real!]

A few remarks, if I may: 1)It's my opinion that personification and metaphor are effectively crafted; 2) "Asik" is a poignant name choice as well as the role he plays, 3) I removed a few commas and combined a couple of stanzas for tone and conistency respectively; 4) whereas art imitates life, I'm having some difficulty understanding how "art anticipates;" and 5) the tone is "wistful;" forget exciting.

Ok, not a bad effort Filitsa… although I would stick to black in case people assume you’re pretending to be the Archbishop!
Oh, and one little spelling mistake.

7/10

[Filitsa]

A few remarks, if I may: 1)It's my opinion that personification and metaphor are effectively crafted; 2) "Asik" is a poignant name choice as well as the role he plays, 3) I removed a few commas and combined a couple of stanzas for tone and conistency respectively; 4) whereas art imitates life, I'm having some difficulty understanding how "art anticipates;" and 5) the tone is "wistful;" forget exciting.

Ok, not a bad effort Filitsa… although I would stick to black in case people assume you’re pretending to be the Archbishop!
Oh, and one little spelling mistake.

7/10

"Why you little ^%$#!" That's a typo, not a spelling mistake. And keep your nuts to yourself!