So close to death. I really feel it grabbing for me. I fear him. And long for his embrace, like a lover's.I'm afraid. And I wonder what kind of anxiety is greater than the fear, about possible lived days.What can a living life bring me? The view of the duration of my children?Where is the trust in their existence?And then the question remains about my own existence?What is my assignment?And what should I take from these decades?
I am very happy that my paintings about the soul, the people touch, where they also picked me up to arise. Upon request for the template, in addition to my drawings is about the texts, I have now submitted my script in a test print. I will present this to the exhibition of my pictures about the souls in Hagen.
I've discovered a new size. Leaves-wise 15 x 15 cm appear to me as a way out of the deepest blackness of the last days.As secured in a cocoon and shielded from advice and questioning frown, I relieve myself on the small piece of paper and amazed that the little seems to bear more than a big screen. It compresses my effusion and I think of each edge again 2 cm to withhold, to make it in a Passepartout even more narrow. Frame around it, slice in front, and my thoughts and excesses are sealed, like a virus to look at and study for some time and for a someone who will feel closer to me...