The very depths of desolation are no stranger to me, I have seen it in the heavily exaggerated mascara eyes of Third world sex workers with no local currency in the pockets and empty bellies, their guardian spirits on a life time strike, whispering softly from dank and dark alleys, promises of a sexual undertone to passing strangers from foreign lands...
I guess I have to follow the rules of this weird unfair world, having painted the heterosexual division of the world sex trade most of my adult life, having heart stories of what drunk first world males can do to undereducated third world prostitutes, from a thousand female throats...
I guess I will have to follow the complex rules of this new world where the Euro is on a fast track to becoming obsolete, a penetrable mystery that is beyond my Farang imagination where the assasination of the dough of an economic powerhouse could well mean the end of my self sought mental suffering...no more wintering stints in countries famous for their unfair sexual exploitation of Western males...or was it the other way around?
I still hear their stories while I paint them here in my house in Amsterdam, vividly remembering while I am in my personal Buddhist prayer cell, painting, panting and yet more painting, naked third world models, portraits in acrylics while their voices fill my Western head...
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