Illustrations of...

Digging through books with explicit illustrations.

These are the things that remind us all that as human beings have souls. Because they move you. At the same time, do you feel love? Fear? Dismay?

The artist is trying to say something in every picture. Mind you, there are no words to accompany these pictures. They're in real-time. Almost like pastel colored photographs. You can even taste them without making contact. This gallery.

You set the book on your stove. Set it to six and watch it burn and for what? Because you couldn't understand it so why keep it? Why not just throw it away? Let it find its way to a stranger. Maybe they could interpret it better than you could?

You snap back to reality. Holding this masterpiece in your hands, you put it closer to the light. There are children dancing in the lines. You see a human heart. You see a young man on his knees in the alley behind a bar, vomiting onto the street. But it's all one collective thing: Two people sitting underneath a tree with a heart carved into it. Then you think...

"Why couldn't he have drawn himself as a young man? An eligible bachelor who went through a slew of women? Ten women in line in front of the threshold behind a closed door. They're mostly fixing their make-up, wearing nice dresses that'll just end up being wrinkled on his floor. What's the use?"

Then you think some more...

"Why couldn't he have painted how he felt when he met the girl in the picture? The time and place were perfectly right. It's such a beautiful coincidence."

Because you can only see what he wants you to see. Because you see, artists are the best at telling white lies and half truths. But you can tell with every penstroke, brush stroke. You can find it in the words. But...

Does it really matter?