PICPOETRY

The normalisation of water.

Doing a performance talk thing at Lisbon’s MAAT (Museu de Arte, Arquitetura e Tecnologia) this Thursday for @lucinda__correia amazing Green Book.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 ...

I will find my extensions. They are lying low, speaking to the world in tongues of fingeredges. They were here before me. I will become an extension of my extensions.

He was looking forward to those nights when the water rose and he could just float out of the window like a pet jelly fish sneaking out to explore the world.

This is all I want, she said. To become one with everything. And she laid down her want and her I and her all, and the world covered her like an autumn blanket.

Join the dots. They will lead you nowhere. Join the dots. You need the circle. Join the dots. You are afraid of empty. Join the dots. They are endless.

Performing Justice, one gesture at a time.

Deodorising capitalism.
#hauserwirth #georgecondo

Elated to be part of The Mnemosyne-Initiative first group exhibition at the Metaverse Biennale @artgatevr. Thank you to @centerforhellenicstudies for supporting and recognizing the initiative during 2020/21, giving the myth of Mnemosyne a voice in ...

My one eye opens inwards worlds of sea without blue. My other eye opens outwards waiting till you swim to me. That door though will never open.

I’m not that mean. Only if you ask nicely.

Once I find the tools, I’ll make the master’s house a comfortable little hovel.
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Doting II, architectural clay, glaze, wood, metal. 15x22x10, 2021

That thing called contrast, that thing called fairytale, that thing called capitalism, that thing called shade, that thing called refuge, that thing called mirror, that thing called time, that thing called nowhere.

In a far away country, there was once a girl with orange lips. They brought her here to learn her secrets. She made moonjuice and water canapés. They all ate and drunk. Their lips turned orange too. And the girl was forgotten.

Vertical high it becomes deep, cloud folds swallows, the up becomes the below, but even when you finally manage to breathe pure sky, you will never manage to forget the earth.

Sometimes I wish you couldn’t see me.

Speak to me of the times when you had another self next to you, do you still remember? and you touched the world with two souls, opened already to each other, open forever to the outside.

The city is a garden of kindness. Here for a weekend break after many years, and I managed to leave my suitcase at the airport bus. The thought of replacing all that I lost was too much. But then @lola.kiko appears out of nowhere, having found the ...

Holding the light, lightly.

I will keep forever watching me watching me, wondering whose shadow this has been. #catherineyass #ambikap3

My body is a building, a temple, a vestibule. My mind is a cloud, a terrace, a window. My needs are underground, my fears are growing where the jasmine grows. My ever is in my belly, my never on my skin. #catherineyass #ambikap3

We will never, ever open. #friezemasters

We are all complicit. Still from online performance Slashing Waters, twin camera, 20 mins on double screen, available on my website andreaspm.com

I always dive upwards, he said. The splash is gentler, the breath holds longer. And the seabed pulses with the luminescence from other planets.

There was a pill we all took, the journey was long but we were asleep, we woke up and we could finally see, stars and skies upside down.

‘Slowly sinking ascending’, triptych, 30x72cm, 2021 (in progress)

This is the last work I’m trying to finish before leaving Venice. It’s more visceral than the rest, yet the omnipresent jellyfish have now become more part of the ...

Your roundedness your arching your spherical your heightened, they are everywhere

Small bleeding ways out.

We looked at different mirrors and thought we were seeing each other. Yet the connection was made. And on its taught lines, miniature deers and flying fishes were hanging like Murano grapes.

You let me touch an early spring, it was the year before you were born, it was filled with roses but no scent, you said now you’ll know me, I waited, your halo slid down the skirt of the planet, nothing to risk nothing to gain, I waited, nothing to...

He opened both windows because he didn’t know which way the moonlight was going to come in the house. He wanted to be prepared.

Let the viscera climb up

Drawing battle lines as if they were embraces.

Your name was written on the floor as if we were all ready to forget it.

“All ascends carry the weight of the ground they leave behind ”
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Triptych, Oil paint, gold metallic spray and gold leaf on canvas board, 60x100cm, 2021

There we are, top step gazing, the air is different up there, the sun steams like a boiled apricot, we are younger, we are closer to another life, we must never never step down, but the wind picks up.

I left my afternoon on your shoulders, and when you turned it became a forest.

I left my breath on your neck, and when you turned it became a necklace

He said past he said future but with his hand he was already touching the light of now.

cover invisible, line interrupted, roof of air, day adeciduous : these are the ways our angels hide from us

For that one brief moment in our lives, we all, human reptilians, become a mirror, our skin a surface that no longer protects but only projects, the vast light of the next moment.

Aquiferous angel
In his body carried water
And in water
slowly descending
he let it flow

Air and water were sliding beneath them. And they were floating away on the elements.

His first word was mountain. But then the sea opened up and gave him a life. He did well out of it. But he never stopped looking for heights and depths.

There was another world. The door stayed always open. Anyone could walk in. But the world only lasted for a few seconds. Most people turned back. And we just followed.

Post-swim shaky parting
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(photo by Elias Avramidis)

The power of cliché

Several cups of coffee later, small strong dark, lost moments of the day when the day blossoms into an ocean, round shiny inward, and the pleasure of his loneliness dissolved in him like brown sugar.

We’ve all had heard that metaphor, it was nesting under our skin, by now, crawl crawl break, flood flood sink, ah it’s ok, it’s just a metaphor.

And we could never know whether it was us or something outside us.

We kept the windows open throughout the rain.

In the late morning, the city filled with imaginary windows that led to the water or the light, one never knew until one climbed into them, and even then, the windows made further windows, waves of windows lapping gently on that little market full of...

We gathered around the light waiting to see where it was coming from. What a waste of a garden, we thought. But still waited.

That time when the wind blew without upsetting a single hair on his perfect head and the city turned like a well pasted lipstick in the tube of eternal joy.

That smoothness that took care of my whole life, one with everything else, my skin sleek slalom across my and other bodies. That smoothness that left me no identity. That angular smoothness. That’s all gone when he slid his hand on my face and ...

Your secret is not safe with me. Yes, it’ll only stay in the box, where our hands touched when the lights were still on, and the fans were fluttering like bats ready to drink. But, look, the box is open and the world is crowding.

The other side of the spectacle

That dance, slow and masked, we see connections, but connections ignore us. We ride our doubles, mirrors or smoke, but our doubles fade. Don’t forget to count, he said, foot already placed in the future.
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Pic by @p.s.fiorenza

Fruits of Venice

Artist hard at work. Artist upside down. Artist random shot. Artist not artist. Artist inevitably. Artist slumbrous. Artist afternoon. Artist get up already.

Venice Pantone. Pick up the colour of the city of your dreams. Add time and salt that will destroy it in a year or so. Add hands that will touch it, feet that will step on it and eyes that will devour it. Add yourself in a night walk, light summer ...

The future of a promise - that they will live and they will die and they will pray and they will eat - is a promise itself, wrapped in soft white lace of the type that carries forever the stains made from the melted wax.

This will fill with water.
The water always comes from below.
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Sinking City XXII, oil and gold metallic spray on canvas, 100x50x3.50, 2021 (in progress)

There was a night that came visiting the day. They had tea and vodka together, they learned how to have sex while sleeping and cook breakfast while dreaming. I keep a piece of night in every one of my afternoons.

The flower’s ray, the planet’s debris, the edge of your nose, all inclined, soft as tomorrow’s breeze, ready to be touched by me, the plucker, the sleeper, the glass-blower.

Free the diagonal. Become the ladder.

The lines rolled out across the roofs, down from windows and verandas, up in antennas and sidereal bird flights. The text finally became the city.

The vegetal that we are. The water that we are. The gold that we are. .
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Oil and gold chrome on canvas, 50x70cm, 2021

Le bas oneirique, nageant en or et mort verte, pas de haut, juste plus bas.

Yeah ok I’ll press it.

Give her a minute. Just to finish her text. And she’ll jump right in. You just keep it open and deep for her. And she’ll swim in the light like a swan.

Of a wall, of a master, of a tool, of a bounce, of an offering, of a way out, of a hole back in, of demolitions and armours. (Notes on acts of domestic vandalism)

Slashing Waters - a performance on waters, law and wavewriting, online, double camera, twin sound channel, video, acetate, ink, water (video to come on andreaspm.com )

And our distance became water

You’ve always seen me, even when I couldn’t. You’ve never lost me, even though I never found me. You’re always you. I am you only sometimes.

Double bind blind doubling up and yet you’ve managed to come out for that picnic.

Memento mori

Tell me

Everyone bleeds. The air was stale with humidity. He opened the door and walked back in. He wished the gaps weren’t that wide so that he could shut the world out. But the world kept on bleeding in through the air.

For you I turned my days into a stage, joy hidden under every teacup, sadness like dust on every tabletop. But the nights, I drew the curtains shut.

Walking mid-water, ocean deep corridors of strutting backspines, pebble by pebble we make our houses, cracking always in that middle of dark water seashell breath.

Hidden your hand holding a heated afternoon sun, keep it tight in, and when the evening becomes your companion, because it will, then remember to place it somewhere on your face, an electric smile fading or a memory of an adolescent thunder.