Monday
When I was not in Paris, having not been to the Musee D’Orsay for some time, I began to feel as sense of loss, one of suffering. Almost as if I had suffered an addiction in the past and was on forced deprivation of this one element I did not know built up such an important part of my soul. I had been dreaming about the paintings on the far right. The oil. The colors. The strokes. I had spent hours searching for them in the slight hope I would catch a glimpse of their being from my far-away country. When I finally went there again, it was as if I was experiencing a rebirth. As if I was baptised for the first time. I lost myself in the brush strokes, in the colors, the forms. I lost myself in the exploration of the female body. The, now long lost, strong relation between concepts and the art. The subconscious step into surrealist art before surrealism was invented. The capture of the imagination of mind, the visualisation of thought processes and invisible images. When I look at the paintings I feel the way I feel when I lay in bed and I close my eyes for hours and I imagine surrealist
