Gallery

Not just thrown aside, not just casu­al­ly said. With love, the bou­quet of ros­es too, cat­a­pult­ed onto the colour­ful ground of real­i­ty.
Slapped down, smashed down.
Affec­tion at rock bot­tom, run­nin’ out, does­n’t stand still, gath­ers like a sea of ​​last drops some­time pours forth in the bright hue of the own inner voice and a new begin­ning emerges.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

Whoa! What’s dear to my heart?
In the area very close to the Bro­ca site, thus we pour it out in words describ­ing the pas­sion along sweep­ing lines, set­ting no lim­its in the process from orange to deep brown.
Every­thing finite, ulti­mate­ly ends in dust and ashes.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

Let’s allow us a sec­ond, third, fourth look!
Rec­og­nize Schrödinger’s cat in all liv­ing things.
Alive and equal­ly dead.
Until we lay down the mea­sur­ing stick – ram it into the ground as a way­mark­er towards the dis­patched sui­cide mis­sion.
Keep our hands free to han­dle black and white, paint­ing with all the shades of gray in between. up in stages, down in stages,
lis­ten to the sound,
rec­og­nize the melody of the world.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

[with­out words]

Fall­en down close to the trunk,
Lay­ers of paint bro­ken down to the base,
primed with love on stretched fab­ric
called out for search in faces out of con­sid­er­a­tion
seen in reflec­tions beneath the sur­face.
Dead threads resem­ble red lines applied,
divid­ing line hori­zon.
Falls like domi­noes,
make way for the way towards orbit
illu­mi­nat­ing the black.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

[with­out words]