Nahal Hashir
The alligator has started to rot. Its suffocating odor pervades the air. The gypsy mother urges us to carry it a little longer. The girl sits next to me, our thighs rubbing, our nostrils burnt under a common stench. The boys on the opposite row are staring at us. The wind brushes her long locks on my face. For one fleeting moment, I want to tell her that she’s beautiful, but she doesn’t need to be told that. There’s no before or after for her.
Read MoreTheir garage was where Wally first learned about his heritage, the Hashshashins, the Ismailis who, on being expelled from Egypt and later, running from persecution by Mongolian hordes, became highly skillful assassins.
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The pressure of "what am I painting and/or why?" can be crippling and I think we often forget that there's this whole tradition out there of believing in and appreciating the process of art-making for what it is. Can definitely be really liberating!
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