BLUE AVATARS, PORTALS OF REMEMBRANCE

If we only remember who we came here to be, the world would be devoid of violence. Were we to rediscover the essence of genuine love, setting aside our egos, our capacity for compassion towards both others and ourselves would undoubtedly expand.

For years, a book with a small figure on the cover, alone in the vast cosmos, kept returning to me. This cover evoked a strange mix of fear and curiosity, an unknown yet fascinating dread. Years later, my medical treatment came full circle; the diagnosis from years past returned, and with it, AVM, regrew after bone transplants. My legs became like cotton, and the trauma of past years returned in an instant. "This is impossible!" I thought. "I don't want to go through this cycle of operations again."

Then, that book "Convoluted Universe" by Dolores Cannon appeared again. I knew I couldn't avoid it any longer, that it was appearing for a reason. After reading many of her books, I decided to try Dolores’s method on myself. I found a wonderful practitioner specializing in past life regression and hypnosis. I scheduled a QHHT session, Quantum Healing Hypnotherapy. It was more than just hypnosis; it was a conversation with the subconscious, with my inner self, with the essence that holds memories of who I truly am and where I came from.

Blue people, they arrived, a family in starlight. Joy-peace, a belonging.

Thus, the "Blue" series emerged. Seeing these blue figures brought immense joy, peace, a sense of intergalactic belonging. Painting them is a relief, a feeling of unconditional love. They are avatars of our potential, each accompanied by a poem explaining its meaning.

Blue, why blue? Skin, a weapon, a border. I paint them blue, to erase the lines. Egypt's sky, Renaissance's humility, ultramarine timeless. Avatars, they are us, what we are, what we could be. Blue's universality counters global divisions tied to skin color. In Egypt, it meant heavens; in Renaissance Europe, holiness. Ultramarine evokes majesty, mystery, serenity, timelessness – the spiritual essence I aim for in these blue figures.

Blue, they are blue, a spiritual skin. A sky-color, a holy-color, the color of mystery, of forever.

Bloom of Memory

Do you remember these bodies? Not human, other, temporally displaced, foreign-close. These are maps of the soul and its wanderings, not maps of the earth. Blue body, not a whole, but a collection.

Blue skin, a sign, a trace of a lost tribe, a sea turned into memory. Color, you say, is meaningless.

Blue skin - a fallacy, a sign of a tribal index. Or a cartographic trace of origin? Do you remember these bodies, not quite human, belonging to a time past? Bodies: pre- and post-human.

Hey, do you remember? Flames, landmarks. End or beginning?

Flames, not fire, signs. Do they burn, are they reborn? Flames creeping over them and between them, marking territory, delineating boundaries of telepathic communication, climbing like ivy, signs of transformation.

 Do they burn, or are they reborn in an endless cycle of becoming? Flames, not igneous, but semiotic. Landmarks of earthly sensations, both pleasure and pain. Is it the end, or just the beginning of another journey? Scattered narratives

TEAR CATCHERS, Taxonomy of Absence

 Unguentarium: a vessel, a form signifying absence silent witnesses to the passage of time

A tear, a distilled essence of loss, trapped within glass walls

Its structure changes depending on the mood during its production

They say tears have various functions, various use

Our whole world, one of its moments contained within each tear relics of joy, the syntax of sorrow

the enduring power of absence. This glass holds the salt of a thousand departures

The body, a vessel, like these ancient bottles, filled with the ghosts of what was

Tears are just a language spoken in the silence between words

Hey, imagine the hands that held these vessels, the eyes that wept into them

The weight of their grief became my weight. Their joy, mine. a tangible presence of those long gone

life in a fragile container, their negative space defines the shape of what is lost

The salt of tears, the sea of the vastness of the space between us

Anatomy of Departure, Firefly Rear

That evening, blue slowly leaked from these remembered bodies and their surroundings. They emerged one by one from the violet core, sediment from long-gone tides, a map of a home we never knew.

This body, its wrinkles, its fingerprints, became a map of longing, a river of cobalt returning to the earth's throat. Will I ever find peace? Solace, peace you ask? What is a body, if not a vessel for the unspoken, a rear for the ash we carry?

Firefly, not an insect, but a flicker, a stutter in the dark. Spiritual guides, they lead us with these starlight wounds.

Funny, you say, light from the rear, from hidden corners, from shameful places. As if beauty, to exist, had to be stained, had to carry the mark of humiliation. Like my own light, leaking from the places I bury, from the silence I wear.

Dung, you see, is the best fertilizer. Because it's from rot, from the body's decay, that we bloom. We bloom, not with innocence, but with the remnants of memory and longing for who we once were. We bloom, like fireflies, from the darkness, from the very places we try to forget.

 Morphology of Loss and Gain

ON THAT SUMMER MORNING

The world froze into one single shape of tear

Who’s tear? Someone asked

A tear of a universal grief, mine and ancestors contained the uncontainable

The tear, a moment of perfect clarity, an illusion

world, a single, frozen droplet, a vessel

our love distilled into an absence

A frozen landscape of longing to what we once had that timeline

Not to be repeated in this one. Oh no!

You see I didn’t know that all our love could be contained

Into a single shape of a tear

So perfect, so ephemeral, so transparent

The fragile architecture of our bodies kissing in the abyss

collapsed into a single moment

That seems to be lasting a lifetime

 overflowing with the weight of what was

The tear, so small but monumental to the unsaid

To hold this tear, even in my imagination, is to hold the weight of all that is lost and gained

The tear, a lens, distorting and revealing

The bride of all brides

We hold the sky the way a child holds a secret, 300x300cm, silk paint, oil paint, soft pastel on silk

Dancing in the Crowns of Trees

We rise in a circle—
a motion like breath, like the hush before a name,
like a dance ringed by portals we cannot see
but feel burning
at the edge of us.

We hold the sky the way a child holds
a secret:
tight, trembling,
holy.

Spring kneels on the earth.

Above us, orbs spin—
joyful, weightless—
carrying the forgotten memories
of galaxies that once
dreamed of us.

They cheer for the lives
we almost remember.

And for a moment
we shine—
not alone, but as one.

Memory: the strength
that doesn’t need a body
to remain.

158x117cm