Dead Inside
This series called "Dead inside" is based on my feelings. A way to get myself out of the depths of despair, an attempt to respond to reconcile with the events taking place around me.
"Glowing star veins" is a piece about anhedonia. About that feeling when I force myself to do anything that I used to enjoy. But it doesn't work anymore. Not now, nor ever. Now it's just pieces of life, a smile resembling a grin, just so that no one knows that there is no more past inside me.
"The night of living silence" is a piece about insomnia. There is nothing more beautiful and at the same time more terrible than the ocean at night. A huge layer of danger that calls you into its soft embrace. It can be heard and felt but not seen. In LA, it's hard to find that black piece of the ocean near which you can sit, think, talk to. There are always lights here. Fires that, by their mere existence, turn a wild beast into a silent kitten. Lights that break the connection with nature, lights that remind you every time that you need to sleep, and you can't do it.
"The ocean inside" is a piece about me. Even when I am in a deep emotional hole, unable to continue my life, something inside still continues to fight. It climbs out, screaming "this will pass." I guess it's called "hope". The problem is that sometimes it's hard to hear it.
“River of decayed faith”. Believe, believe, believe. All that remains when nothing depends on you. Just believe to have a reason to wake up in the morning. Believe that everything will be fine, believe that everything will end soon, believe that everything will be fine. At least as before. It works first. But each time the deadlines are postponed, it becomes more and more like self-deception. Pure, bitter self-deception, absolutely unnecessary to anyone
"The Ocean of lost hope" was painted at the moment when I once again found out that I would have to depend on other people for a long time, that all my plans and dreams were again postponed indefinitely. I have to live someone else's life and pretend that everything is fine again and again.
"Germination of hope". Hope is self-deception. you just need something to move on. clinging to every "sign of the universe", looking for clues in dreams, coincidences and the eyes of strangers. You just convince yourself that just a little more and everything will be fine. But after a light streak, a dark streak always comes.
Curse
"53". $53 is exactly the salary per day for a person who goes to kill my friends. He could earn much more per hour, but he goes to kill my friends. And each of my days begins with checking all the messengers and praying that all familiar names leave at least some message. At least emoji, just a dot. I will know that they are alive, they are not in captivity. Impotent rage and anger. 53 - this is how much a day of a Russian soldier costs. And I hate every one of them.
"Reflection of a forgotten reality" is that feeling when I remember how it was before. When the treacherous brain erases all the bad and shows me those happy and bright moments, the fullness of which I didn't feel before. They were just bits and pieces of life... somewhere between walking the dog and eating thawed corn. Almost a year and a half since I was deprived of the opportunity to paint. Almost two years of trying squeezing something out of myself onto the canvas and joy when I managed to combine the inside with the outside. And then again emptiness, darkness and hopelessness. And just thinking about how easy it used to be. And endless questions about why now is not so.
More works here:
https://www.saatchiart.com/nreyne