Rizpah Amadasun

People escape into art

Art escapes out of me

More than a form of expression

Paint oozes from every pore

Creating prisms of enlightenment and darkness around me

Words graffiti the air

As they spray from my mouth mindfully, intentionally, sometimes fearfully

Destiny ignored the eradication of my body from art history

By placing my heart in the center of contemporary creativity

By design we were always here, we are here to be seen

They were right about we

We the painters

The wordsmiths

Across the spectrum of society

We reflect the morality of human history

I am a historian like my sisters before thee

I am a time traveller

The maker whose tears drop in unsafe places

I breathe abstract romanticism

My laughter crackles like fresh oil pastels

An enthusiastic taste for colour

My pallet a shady disco of layered paint

I hate watching paint dry

Wrapping canvas around stretcher bars isn't soothing

Anticipation for the artwork is everything

My purpose beyond passion

Crafting observations of reality to question our philosophy

Art is my ancestry

I am the tool

Down the family tree our hands have innovated

Our hands have motivated

Hands on hands on hands

My hands were not made to be idol in the service of consumerism

Descending

I ascend through brush strokes, collage and glue

My being is a protest when my creative practice should be unassuming personal commentary

Instead of interference in institutional colonial frequencies

My art is not a remedy

Or a big tick for diversity

Art flows naturally

Art is apart of who I be

Art

That's me.