An artist inspired me. Alone in the winter sun, when the light is dying, and the cold is creeping in; his paintings bloom like forlorn magic. Magic tricks, the power of illusion, and the darkness which lives inside all of us; Mike Worrall paints and my words emerge on paper.
“When the fiddlers play, the music reaches your ears, like a sunken man you try to approach the bridge. To cross, or to live on, and it evades you. When I’m lost in a maze of bewilderment, and the clock forever strikes twelve, your fairytale might be over, yet I never lived in one. When an Angel grasps a glowing light, a stricken man might run for cover. An arrow points, a failed delight, your fear is marked, yet mine remains alight. A naked arm might flee the force of its shadow. Yet in my mind, the darkness climbs and flees the timely terror. Paths collide, our way was shut, and adversity arises. In his vanity, you run to take a look in the mirror. A portrait of death, squeamish, uncovered. The cry of fright, the road from where he walks, away. The depths from where, the angst still shelters, the waves tumble over each other. Never awaken an angry sea, for where then will your refuge take cover?”
His mystery leaves me wondering… His symbolism, dark yet subtle, elusive yet bold. His pictures are a contrast of evasion, life, death and poetry. We make choices, we succumb to beauty, we lose ourselves in unstructured mazes. Choices await us and vanity attracts us. I might be afraid, and so many already are; what is waiting for us, who is taking from us, and where will it all end?