TRUE ART

True art hangs from the frozen lollipops swinging for the facades, melting as the day warms up. It is the smoke on stage, and the mist that guides to the woods, where the wolves are waiting for to protect you, Little Red Riding Hood. Almond flavored oil, cinnamon scented incense, candles and stone bathtubs. I keep the memory of the organic piece of art from your accident, a blood drop flowing to print the white bandage canvas. There I was, enthralled by the charm of pulling the wool string from your sweater, black and yellow stripped skin, ragged. It is the authentic flow, the unique and only law. It is me, waking up as a wounded female fighting for life in the wild, dangling lianas, transparent tulle curtains, and shimmering diamonds on the sink water surface. The honesty in the impulse, not expecting and not welcoming, just sheltering. The trace of foot prints in the snow directing to the dead leaves lodge, my stew, necklace edible beads floating in the sauce. A note on the mirror, an arrow pointing to my face, I wink and take a Polaroid. Museums and dungeons, gallery doors made of lace handkerchiefs patchwork. And of course the playground for freedom, the random constant, the contradiction, the land of dreams and secrets, a frame inside of a frame, inside of another till infinite. Ant last but not least, a notice on the right bottom corner saying: No critics, no judgments. B_Nour