In the tiny pores that adorn your canvas, in every stroke of paint,
a soul trapped within those somber sculptures.
The Goliath and David, the musician, Judith...
Sins forgiven in the eternal blood of Saint Peter.
That fury in your mind, those vengeful hands, those fiery eyes...
To Caravaggio with love,
Whose life began with the canvas and ended on the same. Who lived the darkest and brightest moments in quick succession (Tenebrism, as well). The world today, treasures what you lost, what you died for...
You live, indeed.
|Boy with a basket of fruit|
|David and Goliath - self portrait|
|Judith beheading Holofornes|
|The Lute player|