The women streamed in one by one. Lurid neon oilcloth dress and masks their only uniform.
Graffiti protests lined the walls but their power was stronger than petty words.
Masks hid disobedient eyes and their mouths held a silence that was deafening.
She was The Hidden.
It was important to keep her mask on at all times.
Her knowledge was sacred.
Forgotten bricks, stones of old, grey landscape for days like these. Closing her eyes to the whispers from the past, she traces ancient symbols with cold, long finger tips…
Tree branches track her course, stretched out to try to reach her, to no avail. She is not of this place; she is a spy from another time. Goddess blood flows through her veins and these stones know it. They can feel it in their deep, dark matter.
Her power is not to be constrained and certainly could never be owned by stones like these. As she opens her eyes, grey silence meets her stare. She smiles slowly, stepping carefully back into the past. She has haunted her future for far too long now.
“HAUNTED BRICKS” is available to buy as a digital collage on SUPER RARE
She was a wraith of sorts; black leather looks with an attitude to match. She hadn’t always been this way but all that mattered was the present. She had no bandwidth for any other scattered moments of time. Ascetic goddess of the future, she ran a tight ship. There was no room for error.
However, in the faded lacuna of remorse, she would sometimes allow herself the luxury of daydreaming of Miami Beach. It was long gone now but she had walked it’s plastic glare in her childhood and it’s memory was more real that it’s reality.
All she had left was that memory; it was a Miami distortion. A 3D projection of a lost reality and a different life.
She had sat here, on this small blue chair so many times. Yet, this time felt different. She was a grown woman now, with towering stilettos and a towering career to match. Yet…
When she sat on the blue chair, she remembered. She remembered what it was like to have grandiose dreams of being a Hollywood starlet or a famous singer, going from show to show, leaving a trail of hearts in her wake. Or maybe she was a artist living in Paris, drifting from painting to lover and back to painting again. She had forgotten what it was like to dream. And no career would ever whisper dreams to her, no matter how big the promotion.
She gripped the blue chair tight as her heart and head fought the battle. Her soul watched smugly from the sidelines, already knowing the war was won.
All it had taken was a small chipped blue chair…
“A West Hollywood flickering sunset light lit up the motel room as she sat nervously waiting. She paced up and down, peeking through faded nets at the window but there was no sign.
She opened the door into fading twilight and walked outside, pitching against the gritting harling of the motel building. She lit up a cigarette, hands shaking uncontrollably. She watched the bright red neon sign flash on and off as she smoked. It was always like this. He always sent her into a Hollywood head spin and this time was no different. She sniggered to herself…if he could see her right now, she would have a grey cloud of smoke and pixelated thoughts all smudged into one. Right above her head. She took another long drag and pressed herself harder into the motel building.”
This is one of a series of Digital Paintings from a new series that I am working on called “Hollywood Pixelations” about dystopic, pixelated lives in Hollywood.