Image: Hiromi Nakajima - Untitled
Notes for retrograde.
Notes for drool.
Notes for propagation.
Notes for the song of dawn.
Notes for interpolation that allow tips to dream.
Notes for the slip of nightfall.
Notes for no face on a back.
Notes for eerie signals in a few seconds of blusters,
makes you tremble for a little, leaving them wide open and breathing in.
Then when you breathe out, I take a note for a farewell, an anonymous waterfall. You don’t look at me or rather you can’t look at me, you already took a luminous path on the way home.
Good - bye. Squinting slowly to unfocus from the garish chandelier that was on your head, another note for laying down on my bed, now you've left it’s lighter than before. Whirling waves caught me, the depth in which someone had been buried and forever is a total impertinence for your speed of time. Babble like a bubble with a double, as though sounds from the deep are ascending, the song of pirates who robbed notes from blended tones. How long does this last, behind us time is revolving from our forehead to our toes, high tide and low tide on repeat. I’ll be there at morning when notes split blisters in cloudy days, as you see the sky's the limit, it never ends so it's not the end.
An extract from "Short Notes" the collection of paintings and writings by the artist Hiromi Nakajima. Her decolonised psyche is witness to a ribaldest maze in which ideas are torn into fragments Red balloons float as broken horse hooves tread mountains spilling with creamy white lava. These images are made quickly merging primary tints in patterns of mud, perhaps an attempt to capture the spirits of colour or a ritual attempt to stop the cool drift of forgetfulness.