DEAR AUTUMN ...
“Beware the autumn people… For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life…For these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir in their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eyes? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles- breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them.”
– Ray Bradbury, “Something Wicked This Way Comes”
"DEAR AUTUMN it's in the small things that I see you arriving. The way the air gets so crisp now in the mornings, the cold of the marble on my balcony seeking through my feet, small leaves already gathering on the ground like first gifts from you. They still wear the sun on them tender, slightly orange-red, luminous and soft as if you just brushed them gently out of summers hand. I saw you also left the sunflowers on the fields still untouched, only rolling around in the trees grabbing the first dead leaves. But that was not your doing - at least not yet - they only died from the throbbing heat of mid summer. I know you will get much darker, a breeze becomes a gust, your brush then a stern grab much harsher in every shape and form.
But I can't wait to meet you then."
MEDIUM/ABOUT gemalte Postkarten ausgearbeitet mit Acryl und Wasserfarben auf Karton 14,8 x 21 als eine Hommage an die Zeit im Jahr zwischen den letzten warmen Sommertagen und den ersten Anzeichen von dem heran ziehenden Herbst. Jede Karte hält die kleinen Hinweise und Zeichen fest, die einem zuerst auffallen, wenn die Tage dunkler werden und der grelle Sommer in einen sanften Herbst übergeht.
AND THIS FOR WHAT YOU WILL FIND
"MEMORIES are stories we tell ourselves, repeat over and over again until we believe they are true.
The fog of the past never truly gives the secret away that is the truth behind every glimpse of what
we think is the reality we lived. And in everyone of us lies a different kind of memory a different shade
to the moment in some the colors harsh, brutal and whirring in others soft, welcoming and like home.
I remember shapes, colors, rays of light and a defuse feeling of hope. And in all the abstract I might
find you again."
DIARY ENTRY 13/02/16
"I hold an August day,
wrapped in solitude
- it disappears completely."
SCRAP BOOK SUMMER 2019