Tag: ART

Beauty for Ashes

Quenched by thirst for True Love.

Did this đŸ‘‡painting last year, after seeing Souza’s Christ( see below 2nd painting for also, his grand son’s Street graffiti of Goan woman praying?)

Painting ‘BEAUTY FOR ASHES’
Raylarn l, Acrylic
Solomon Souza grandson of Souza:
STREET GRAFFITI, Goa.

Art is a language all it’s own. When I’m silenced from society and ask myself what I’m at, is when Painting kicks in. It’s like dancing for me, or cooking a designer meal. It’s my dialect. There’s grace, disgrace, pain, hopeless hope.

Today, Palm Sunday and India and everywhere potentially exploding with Covid, or not…. it’s that kind of day again I’m looking within. Some call it prayer,

you can label it, morph it, strip it down, it’s still the fact of reaching out to the One that made me: the Act of Love that consummates my presence here, the Fact of His Life…. when I think of that, there is little else that overcomes. And I need some overcoming, Now.

Am grateful for the Gifts we are given at this time. Gifts that say it better than we might. These are the Journals of our Times. These are the trails we leave behind, our blood prints that might be a new kind of beautiful for generations to follow. What we are at.. in the Now, matters. These emotions, questions, they capture human responses, and sometimes responses are all we’ve got to secure our eternities.

Souza captures Christ with that Palm Leaf; you might call it grotesque almost, but this is how pain looks in any given century.

His grandson’s Graffiti details the folded palms of a Goan woman. What’s she asking? What are we asking. globally, individually: are there immediate answers, is there Beauty in the Ashes of hopes, prayers and dreams,

what’s Christ got to do with contemporary existence, does God care I may ask. What do we do now:

what is this that causes peace when I pause, lean, go still…. my emotional palms folding in,

is Humanity beautiful when we are most vulnerable,

do we ask questions of immortality, here, like this, now,

when else?

Life wasn’t ever permanent. Now maybe is all we’ve got.

Photo FMF Writers