arte-della-luce

[arte-della-luce]

Paris… I louvre you.

Louvre, Paris, France. February 2018.

[arte-della-luce]

And thus, your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom. -Gibran Khalil Gibran, ‘The Prophet’ Cairo, Egypt, ام الدنيا. February 2016.

[arte-della-luce]

I am still learning- Michelangelo Buonarotti. Vatican Museums & the Sistine Chapel, Vatican City, Italy. July 2016.

[arte-della-luce]

‘A painting is not made to be sniffed’. The ‘Night Watch’, Rembrant, 1642. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, Netherlands. November 2016.

[arte-della-luce]

From dusk until dawn. North Coast, Egypt. July 2017.

[arte-della-luce]

Ma il cielo e sempre più blu - Rino Gaetano 

Doha, Qatar.

February 2017. 

[arte-della-luce]

What am I in the eye of most people? A nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant perso, somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short the lowest of the low. All right then - even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such an nobody, has his heart.

That is my ambition, based less on resentment one love in spite of everything, based more on feeling of serenity than passion. Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. 

I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum.

Loving,

Vincent Van Gogh

[arte-della-luce]

‘I saw the angel in marble and carved until I set him free’. -Michelangelo Buonarotti.

Vatican Museums, Vatican City, Italy.

 July 2016. 

[arte-della-luce]

Darkness cannot drive out darkness, Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, Only love can do that.

-Martin Luther King.

Al Moez Street, Cairo, Egypt. February 2016.

[arte-della-luce]

2018 will be the same

[arte-della-luce]

Agony.

I’ve always considered myself insane, lunatic, demented and mad, and I’m sorry I make you go through this with me, because no matter what I do I do not seem to be sane. I’m sorry you have to look at me suffer, and afflicting myself with horrific things, but I’m an artist, a fucking artist that doesn’t feel inspired unless I’m undergoing pain.

But you see I don’t expect you to understand my psychopathy nor me, because to be honest I can hardly comprehend myself. I’m an accumulation of messy atoms, of chaos, some sort of explosion of emotions and I never settle for anything because i’m always too confused to make a choice. I want nothing or everything, and there’s no harmony in my choices.

I am the architect of my own destruction, the captain of my wrecked raft, and I only feel happy whenever I am in agony and that’s when I feel everything at last.

So I trip over anguish just like people trip over cocaine, and I’m sorry you have to look at the scenery and wonder why the hell I am pushing you away, but this is the only way I know how to live, the only way I can.  

And I once read this quote saying ‘we’re all addicted to something that takes away the pain’, but I couldn’t relate to it, because I do everything to ache. I aim this distress, I aim this torture, I aim this pang and thats why I keep on looking at life with such a pessimistic outlook, to add up to my chaotic mind, my tormented thoughts, horrific conscious, some distress and throes.

I am poison to my heart, and I’m sorry you have to sit there and watch me collapse, and not being able to do anything to extenuate my pain but someday it might get better, or maybe happiness is not made me for me.

Like in modern art, I keep on splattering my emotions just like  contemporary painters splatter and throw colours on white canvas. There’s some kind of order in what he does however people look at his masterpiece, the same way they look at me superficially and hardly understand me or not at all, and that’s why people assume I’m deranged.

But it’s in the way that he silenced the demons within me, By putting his hands around my waist, That I thought that maybe, Just maybe, I am not that insane.

-Written by me

[arte-della-luce]

Flowers in my hair and your breath smells like whiskey. -Lana Del Rey, Damn You. Cairo, April 2017.

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'Books, not guns. Culture, not violence'. -The Dreamers, 2003. Trinity College, Dublin. March 2016.

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See, even endings are beautiful. Taba, September 2015.

[arte-della-luce]

I'm not expecting him to fall back in my arms and cry over me. I really doubt that I ever cross his mind. Maybe when I post a snap and a story, but his heart never aches when he thinks of me. Maybe he smiles a bit, and does his silly smirk and remembers how I made fun of it, but then kissed him and said how much I loved it. He was my almost-lover. I tasted his cigarette stained lips and he called me beautiful. He made me learn how to love, by moving his hands further, higher and deeper, slowly slowly. He said he wanted to get to know me better, to be able to call me his. But he never did. Maybe one day he'll look for my hazel eyes and bohemian soul in the middle of the crowd. Maybe I will too. But, maybe we won't. Almost love hurts. It hurts more than anything. You think of all the possible scenarios, the things you could've said, the things the you could've done to save it. It's the what-ifs and I wishes that kill you. But it was meant to be this way, and I couldn't wish for anybody to be my almost-lover, but him.

[arte-della-luce]

Little moussi boï. Doha, February 2017.

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Qui si fa l'Italia o si muore! -Giuseppe Garibaldi Rome, July 2016.