FACES

(Text by ZJG to an exhibition of paintings by ZG at EPASKT, Athens)

FACES

Faces on ships that move like ghosts thru’ the night, celebrating their appearances – glow worms sliding into a popular island’s harbour. Curious faces, faces of friends, lovers and Muses; for the artist a challenge to depict his feelings in their faces, torsos and extended depictions as the artist’s insight will appear, layered upon each of them. The big roar of the blue-white sisters dancing high on the flaming star of love’s beautiful face. Celebration of assembled heads and their faces, called upon from the birth of the artist on this blue planet; friends and foes, Cain and Abel, so it seems, and from then on many more added on to the universe of great artistic expectations.

Love is everything and everything is art, palimpsest since hundreds of generations; and nothing has changed, as all denuded skins look alike, since rock-art began, since the San-people displayed the spiritual beauty of the ritual hunt. Blessed heavens open in the poet’s tongue, the encore: How many ‘little deaths’ we’ll seek until the one that’s measured out to be the last?

Faces like the constellations of the stars above: What is above is also below – it echoes from the Pyramid texts. Heads and limbs in chaos, fighting for spiritual air, from lip to lip to a continual kiss that’ll make us survive sharing life’s essentials. A geometry of faces modelled on the geometry of the universe. We feel the great blue globe in the blink of our eyes and on the movement of our lips. Faces assemble around me on Plaka Square, filling the warm night air like buzzing bees, shining eyes reflecting the glimmering stars above, descending for the night below the dense-leafed plane trees hiding their happiness from the jealous gods. We do not wish a replay of a drama in mythology, or do we?

The passionate face of love: the poet cowers around in the blue light and his ink pen behaves like a magical wand pointing at the converging shadows that twist and turn time and again in the labours of love, painful, and too enjoyable to describe. You have engineered the split; the voice cries and cracks the form of in the plaster cast of an instantly modelled erotic sculpture. In art we had created this lovingly together. We have tried to save it from the dark cloud of locusts and the attack of an aggressive army of giant ants. Love should never die on this broken twig of olives, below the giant monkey bread tree, where the Muse and her poet will meet in eternity.

Your head’s spiky hair knifes the belly of the soft air and white blood is dripping down like mastic from the wrinkled tree. Your face is not one face, but two faces bouncing on and off, a yo-yo of your thoughts hanging on to your torso, regardless of some missing parts. Her face of sorrow imprinted into the suspended linen as a crumpled expression with all the motions of a bygone excitement. Last kisses and last dances of love’s acrobatic angles, she called ‘Love’s Geometry’. Shards of body layers pulled free from her well sculptured body with great urgency. “Tomorrow it’ll be too late my bard,” she cooed. Her face in a face in contrasting colours: light and dark, green and blue, red and purple, like her lover’s portrait aligned at a grandiose virtual gallery in the clouds.

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