There are moments when I want time to stop.. No, there are moments when I want time to go and just leave me alone, to forget about me and leave me locked at the zero time I am in. To be freed from that dimension, Time. Certainly it is not Time's problem. But, there, that's how I feel , and, what I feel is what is real, because I am too damn egoistic to care for facts.. Human!
It's impossible to step out of time, but there is a simulation, oil painting.
Not all times I hold up a brush to a clean canvas do I step out of time. In fact, it is rare. But they are those rare moments that matter the most. Their abscence or presence decides what kind of painting this is, what kind of person I am becoming.
On a fine cotton canvas, tightly stretched that I feel if I touch it, it will play like a harp, white color waiting on the tip of my small-size brush softened with turpentine. One.. Two.. And I get locked on three, my zero time, when the brush first touches the canvas, and slides... It's in such rare moments that I am careless, it doesn't matter what will come out of this sliding line, if the color white is really what I need at this spot, I forget if it is a ray of light or a trimming of a dress or just a casual white line... It slides, and my eyes are filled with the traces it leaves behind.. Stop, lift it quarter an inch, and kiss, and slide.. Music plays.
Tens of kisses, and hundreds of music tones, I am still locked at three..
I've always noticed that at those moments, I have always been using the smallest brush, or the two smallest ones.. Maybe because I look closely and the face of the canvas becomes all that I see.. I see the fabric of the textile, I see the texture of the oil paste, I see the color leaving the hairs of the brush and falling behind on the textile... I feel all of them, and I feel the smooth sliding, or the turbulent one when too much color leaves the brush, or when two thick lines intersect...
It is at those rare moments that I hear my breaths and my heart-beats, yet they signalize no time motion, I just breathe, and my heart just beats, no interpretations, no meanings, there is nothing and yet there is everything.. Me, suspended in every possible kind of worlds.
And it is when I see a spot that I know it needs not a stroke of brush, but a light touch from a finger, light and quick, at this moment, comes the feeling of Unity, completion.. A quick touch, and I envy the brush.. And there would be an electro-magnetic field that makes me want to lay all my hand just in touch with the whole love union on the canvas..
Maybe it is not about oil painting in particular, most surely there are millions of things in this world that give that feeling, but I am sure, that all of them, are miniature, and the basic rule of conduct among them is Delicacy, touch-and-slide.
It is definitely not Time's problem, and I was never really locked at three, it is that we are always flowing against time, Time is always in our face.. But in those moments, I turn, and flow with time, that it becomes an un-felt invisible friendly force.
It is only when I start thinking that I shouldn't lay my hand, that this shouldn't be white, it is blue, and it should pass in the left corner, not here, it is then that I turn back and face Time, and the dimension is inserted right through my soul, it is then that I see the wooden frame of the canvas, and smell the unpleasant turpentine, and it is then that all I do is not good enough, and Love disintegrates into little fragments here and there, that is not Love any more.. And I see Time.. And comes the moment when I hold up a pen and write, "There are moments when I want time to stop.."