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And There Will Your Heart Be Also
2023 - 60x40cm - Ink on Wood
(Private Collection)
We must suffer
To free our pain
Can you help us
To find our way
You're here to stay
Stay here in paradise
I'd end this moment
To be with you
Through morphic oceans
I'd lay here with you
Only to stay
Stay here in paradise
Only to stay son
Lonely from this maelstrom
Free are you
From this maelstrom
To be with you
C.Mccoy
(Private Collection)
We must suffer
To free our pain
Can you help us
To find our way
You're here to stay
Stay here in paradise
I'd end this moment
To be with you
Through morphic oceans
I'd lay here with you
Only to stay
Stay here in paradise
Only to stay son
Lonely from this maelstrom
Free are you
From this maelstrom
To be with you
C.Mccoy
Glaucoma
2024 - 21x30cm tryptic - Mixed Media on Paper
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
Les Fleurs III
2024 - 10x20cm - two pieces - Ink on Wood
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
Devolution
2020 - 60x40 - Ink on Canvas
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
Les Fleurs V
2024 - 25x30cm - Ink on Wood
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
Les Fleurs IV
2024 - 30x25cm - Mixed on Wood
(Private Collection)
There is something about the rigid posture of a proper, authentic blind
As if extended arms reached to pass his blindness onto others.
Mgła
Contemple-les, mon âme; ils sont vraiment affreux!
Pareils aux mannequins; vaguement ridicules;
Terribles, singuliers comme les somnambules;
Dardant on ne sait où leurs globes ténébreux.
Leurs yeux, d'où la divine étincelle est partie,
Comme s'ils regardaient au loin, restent levés
Au ciel; on ne les voit jamais vers les pavés
Pencher rêveusement leur tête appesantie.
Ils traversent ainsi le noir illimité,
Ce frère du silence éternel. Ô cité!
Pendant qu'autour de nous tu chantes, ris et beugles,
Eprise du plaisir jusqu'à l'atrocité,
Vois! je me traîne aussi! mais, plus qu'eux hébété,
Je dis: Que cherchent-ils au Ciel, tous ces aveugles?
C. Baudelaire
(Private Collection)
There is something about the rigid posture of a proper, authentic blind
As if extended arms reached to pass his blindness onto others.
Mgła
Contemple-les, mon âme; ils sont vraiment affreux!
Pareils aux mannequins; vaguement ridicules;
Terribles, singuliers comme les somnambules;
Dardant on ne sait où leurs globes ténébreux.
Leurs yeux, d'où la divine étincelle est partie,
Comme s'ils regardaient au loin, restent levés
Au ciel; on ne les voit jamais vers les pavés
Pencher rêveusement leur tête appesantie.
Ils traversent ainsi le noir illimité,
Ce frère du silence éternel. Ô cité!
Pendant qu'autour de nous tu chantes, ris et beugles,
Eprise du plaisir jusqu'à l'atrocité,
Vois! je me traîne aussi! mais, plus qu'eux hébété,
Je dis: Que cherchent-ils au Ciel, tous ces aveugles?
C. Baudelaire
To Be Drowned
2023 - 60x40cm - Ink on Wood
Phosphorus
2022 - 44x74cm - Mixed Media on Canvas
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
The Break
2024 - 21x30cm - Ink on Paper
Kill the Men, F*ck the Dogs
2016 - 160x100cm - Oil on canvas
(lost item)
(lost item)
Kill the men, f*ck the dogs
2016 - 160x100cm - Oil on canvas
(lost item)
(lost item)
Les Fleurs II
2024 - 20x10cm, two pieces, Ink on Wood
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
Lokal
2018/2024 - 112x160cm - Oil on Canvas
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
Les Fleurs I
2024 - 20x30cm - Ink on Wood
(Private Collection)
(Private Collection)
Autoportrait
2023 - 100x150cm - Ink on Canvas
An Autoportrait?
...but the head is fractured…
is it though? There are so many pieces. When they stare at each other, they don't even recognize one another! ...and they just keep on fragmenting and fracturing into dust and then particles until the meaning is no more.
Without meaning, there is no "value". When there are no places to put your values on, inevitability sets you so light that your feet become unnecessary. I believed that this was what it meant to die: to be fragmented into dust, to become unrecognizable by the thing you called "yourself". It's like waking up one night and sincerely believing that you were an owl for a good five or ten minutes... Your talons, your beak and everythingelse... Everything before that was a dream dreamt by the very owl. A dream fading into dust, to ashes... or thinking that you were a zinc plate for eternity... Do they even think? They do reflect soundwaves for sure... Who cares?.. You'll tell yourself that material can not have comprehension or ability to think; yet here we are.
Being dead or non-existent is a conception I can only deduce in manipulations at best. There is nothing better to do than to manipulate in Hell- a corpse that can walk, but all worms in Hell decline to touch it: think of a wet specimen that is from a world of formaldehyde. No matter how much coal you add, the flames of Hell don't seem to disintegrate it.
A corpse that wishes for a coma... yet the morning comes as light and burns its eyes.
An Autoportrait?
...but the head is fractured…
is it though? There are so many pieces. When they stare at each other, they don't even recognize one another! ...and they just keep on fragmenting and fracturing into dust and then particles until the meaning is no more.
Without meaning, there is no "value". When there are no places to put your values on, inevitability sets you so light that your feet become unnecessary. I believed that this was what it meant to die: to be fragmented into dust, to become unrecognizable by the thing you called "yourself". It's like waking up one night and sincerely believing that you were an owl for a good five or ten minutes... Your talons, your beak and everythingelse... Everything before that was a dream dreamt by the very owl. A dream fading into dust, to ashes... or thinking that you were a zinc plate for eternity... Do they even think? They do reflect soundwaves for sure... Who cares?.. You'll tell yourself that material can not have comprehension or ability to think; yet here we are.
Being dead or non-existent is a conception I can only deduce in manipulations at best. There is nothing better to do than to manipulate in Hell- a corpse that can walk, but all worms in Hell decline to touch it: think of a wet specimen that is from a world of formaldehyde. No matter how much coal you add, the flames of Hell don't seem to disintegrate it.
A corpse that wishes for a coma... yet the morning comes as light and burns its eyes.
An Autoportrait?
...but the head is fractured…
...but the head is fractured…
...is it though? There are so many pieces. When they stare at each other, they don't even recognize one another! ...and they just keep on fragmenting and fracturing into dust and then particles until the meaning is no more.
...
...
...Without meaning, there is no "value". When there are no places to put your values on, inevitability sets you so light that your feet become unnecessary. I believed that this was what it meant to die: to be fragmented into dust, to become unrecognizable by the thing you called "yourself". It's like waking up one night and sincerely believing that you were an owl for a good five or ten minutes..
...Your talons, your beak and everythingelse... Everything before that was a dream dreamt by the very owl. A dream fading into dust, to ashes... or thinking that you were a zinc plate for eternity... Do they even think? They do reflect soundwaves for sure... Who cares?.. You'll tell yourself that material can not have comprehension or ability to think; yet here we are.
...
...
...Being dead or non-existent is a conception I can only deduce in manipulations at best. There is nothing better to do than to manipulate in Hell- a corpse that can walk, but all worms in Hell decline to touch it: think of a wet specimen that is from a world of formaldehyde. No matter how much coal you add, the flames of Hell don't seem to disintegrate it.
...
...
...A corpse that wishes for a coma...
...yet the morning comes as light and burns its eyes.
Les Fleurs 0
2024 - 20x20cm - Ink on Wood
(Private Collection)
“Sometimes I wish I were a cannibal – less for the pleasure of eating someone than for the pleasure of vomiting him.”
E. Cioran
(Private Collection)
“Sometimes I wish I were a cannibal – less for the pleasure of eating someone than for the pleasure of vomiting him.”
E. Cioran
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