When I was painting, I always was listening to music. The colors were formed upon the canvas systematically according to the chords melancholic or happy, flashy or chary. Levitating in time and space, I almost could reach a Nirvana-like state, as this strange journey got started into the past. I was falling unstoppable even more deeper into the bottomless crater of my own memories, accompanied by rhythm and vibes. I couldn’t escape from that swipping pull, I had to think about the long forgotten, about faded scenes, which subtitled with music just forced my mind to have to remember. I couldn’t resist myself against, from song to song emergenced alternately excursive faces, showing theirselves totally unexpected, they came from nowhere, just to win the temporary importance of the presence, but immerse straight after in the dark sea of the forgotten. Each and every song had its own name label. Oh, how well I know those moments, they are deep damned to squeeze, but they are following one, they are suddenly here again, persistent and obtrusive, one song long ongoing, recurring, stirring miracle. I was caught by the old sadness, I felt the lonely pain of the one way remembrance (I never had a common song with somebody), and needed to ask myself intentional, where are all the people (predominantly women), who did mean so much to me? The songs still are there. In the meantime they got transformed to my personally evergreens. When I listen to them, skeletons are getting alive, and the ghosts in my head start dancing.
LIZ MANDVILLE GREESON • FACE THE MUSIC