London, Jan 2013
A primer of white. Duck cotton that is raw. Extended on a second floor. wrapped on a street made of stone. Over plastic, on a ladder, nailed to the wall. Imagination constrained by clock ticking. Spirit at ease, it's wanted nothing more. This mural, in its expression, was meant to happen.
A violin left on a field, by itself. It morphs into a chelo, it remains brown.
Wild horses run forwards and backwards. Over grass and across nature that is green and black. The nature is made up of lines and interrupted by flight of plants and flowers.
Wild horses, start to disappear, they morph into human, extremities align. It's all senseless. Like you. Wild horses, not for a second given away. Wild horses. Wild.
The green is bright and its neon. All the shapes have hands in them tattoos, fingers caressing them though, fingers of rough hands once painted by a native.
There are trails of dirt. White and dark, particles of meaning, of that wild spirit that celebrates the achievement of the tick ahead. The one that is to happen.
This, WILL, happen
