Nothing to watch here

Neither can sit nor lay down. You aren’t even able to stop for a glimpse. It is just for passing by because there is nothing to stare at. Here they are, the streets that we don’t bother to walk through. Street bared from any image, emptied of any invitation to gaze.

Can read however, or listen, but if you dangle on staring glimpse, a threatening voice sighing upon your auricle: what the f..k are you gaping at? 

In the street, where everyone has the right to share in, where which is named the public, you do not have the right to see (whether there is no right at all or righteousness itself is meaningless.) Seems there is a game to preclude the seeing, where seeing is touching. Curtains are struggling each other to occlude every desired eye [the alien].

Being an alien either to the domestic feminine or an opponent, the patriarch’s superiority comes with the ability to exclude, to block. The only truth is your look being rejected even from a shredded Other.

The painting here, is a deconstructive invitation to look that calls upon you to glare at torn apart veils of the Other; to stand before and stare into the eyes of patriarch; to flirt; to remind that you are reading these for no reason, that you are here for no reason yet to hear these frames are rumbling: “Just go away, do not standstill, do not bother!”