lines speak a thousand words.like words they make up the emotion of the drawing.
a linear visual has so many layers of pain and joy,no stroke on the page is done without intention.
our mind races ahead,our fingers follow.
the line is an artist's tool,ever since he could scrape his environment on walls.but around us,
there is merely mass seperating mass.even my hand against the glaring sun,the bright,the dark,
the various shades of the charcoal.
i like egon schiele.his lines have pathos,and the painful strain of a distant violin.
'passerby' is an attempt to make little stories out of his sketches.his sketches come to me without
context.his moments of delirium,his madness,his weak moments.they have become lost in history,
what comes to me is a page of jumbled lines,constructed bodies,and mournful facades.
and little stories,maybe a man stiching up his past.or someone who has so much to say that he'd rather
just like his quick sketches,they are fleeting glimpses of people passing you by.passersby.