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| Name | | UNTITLED |
| Price, USD | | 1400.00 |
| Status | | For sale, check |
| Size, cm
| | 114.0 x 146.0 cm /switch |
| Artist | | OMU DI COSTAS |
| Style | |
Primitive |
| Theme | |
Spirituality |
| Media | |
Mixed Painting |
| Description | |
OMÃ
THE PAINTER OF THE POOR,
Dream,fight for me up to a better world,dignifying the humble materials
,poor,rejected,as those people that we don,t welcome to, and much less
support;feeling doesn,t matter.The material is twisted,the colour darkens
human irony,the texture is smelling burnt flesh rage.Tale not showed,
locked cages,free
primitive cry of those whose speak with tears,sigh of despair,sober into-
xication laugh,bursting their needs with rusted cans,urinals without
family,gummy painful sleeps,parks and sites enriched with sleeping bags
,conversations absurdly lucid,cold nights tearing her clothes already worn
out.There are dogs,wine cartons,whatever,anything goes;forgotten past
For a future that no longer waiting at the gates of hell,created by us.
The existential anguish,âthe tempus fugitisâ that leads to an irrevocable
death advertise.The breath stitched to the skin,humanity synesthetic,
starvation of a child each 3 seconds,nothing happens,war,gratuitous vio-
lance,abuses,pollution in the Mother Earth to conquer by sword, the
woman comes from our expense,to spoil it is help,what is left is to be
supportive.
I am at home,warm,stuffed full of objects with wheels.not gifts tie hope,
neon lights,metallic looks,make ups,stinking perfumes,heartless words,
stolen jewels,chanting,beating of overfed people by an unapproachable
desire to exploit their already inflated egos.
You may BE, even in a dessert with rats,rubble,poverty.Disappointed,
fed up,made a worthy of nothing.The sensitive ones,touch you,listen to
you,caress your wounds with cotton tongues,flood utopian delight your
eyes,even the more military confrontations as a YES.
âGood Morning-I say;nobody responds_âwill I have to go on living as
due to dumping sites,outlet,sewage,dirty puddles and rubbish containers
that I HAVE MADE . Wail inside, long for the rubbing of clean fingers,
free blood to feel we are ONE.
The cloth is the skin,
The enamel the blood.
The thread,veins,
The bursting splashes,soul,
The cut,destroy the grief,waiting for a healthy wound of hope,
The voidâ¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦fluidityâ¦â¦â¦â¦.
Happiness disguised â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦.the deathâ¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦.
The karma on and onâ¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦.a new born |
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