the smell of ink
ATTN: _prosecutedlove >>> pressedpalms
Task:
Create a print that reflects who you are and write an "I Am" Poem (using the I Am Poem template given to you) as an accompaniment to it. (I didn't exactly follow the template, because who needs those anyways).
I made a few other variations of this print (different colours: ink, paper), I'll scan them if anyone wishes for a closer look.
I.
Tell me when I will be an artist
like you: a painter, a sculptor,
or portraiture photographer.
We begin to think in dimensions
exponentially.
II.
When will my strands of dark hair
be replaced with luscious nylon brushes?
Will my tears ever pool
like fresh diluted watercolour paint?
When will I begin to not only see the
reds, blues, and yellows; but:
emerald shamrocks, star-shine gold,
cerulean seas, and majestic plums?
III.
When soft pastels glide, skimming
across your bedroom floor,
in jewelry boxes (out of sight),
on door handles, and through
your mother’s skylights.
When acrylic paint is injected into your veins,
vast volumes pumping out of ventricles.
Everything a familiar smell,
a habitual touch to the lungs.
When your skin is not so brittle, not so weak,
and more like clay, solidified after hours.
Imagine saturated earth seared in a kiln,
painted over, and glazed.
When you no longer evade particles
and spectrums of kaleidoscopes
creeping into your sleep;
when looking becomes seeing becomes art.
Task:
Create a print that reflects who you are and write an "I Am" Poem (using the I Am Poem template given to you) as an accompaniment to it. (I didn't exactly follow the template, because who needs those anyways).
I made a few other variations of this print (different colours: ink, paper), I'll scan them if anyone wishes for a closer look.
I.
Tell me when I will be an artist
like you: a painter, a sculptor,
or portraiture photographer.
We begin to think in dimensions
exponentially.
II.
When will my strands of dark hair
be replaced with luscious nylon brushes?
Will my tears ever pool
like fresh diluted watercolour paint?
When will I begin to not only see the
reds, blues, and yellows; but:
emerald shamrocks, star-shine gold,
cerulean seas, and majestic plums?
III.
When soft pastels glide, skimming
across your bedroom floor,
in jewelry boxes (out of sight),
on door handles, and through
your mother’s skylights.
When acrylic paint is injected into your veins,
vast volumes pumping out of ventricles.
Everything a familiar smell,
a habitual touch to the lungs.
When your skin is not so brittle, not so weak,
and more like clay, solidified after hours.
Imagine saturated earth seared in a kiln,
painted over, and glazed.
When you no longer evade particles
and spectrums of kaleidoscopes
creeping into your sleep;
when looking becomes seeing becomes art.