Gallery 2 — Evgenia Grypari

Evgenia Grypari
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Evgenia Grypari
Work

Biography
Press
Contact

We wear our heads as crowns. 1m x 1m . Acrylics on canvas.

I am a flower with teeth, I am the serpent you fear. My words are your destruction and my silence is your doom.

We wear our tears like pearls 1m x 1m. Acrylics on canvas.

She’s a motherfucking starboy

Once, a guy I dated asked me if I like poetry and I replied yes. He said with disdain “ wow you must be a true romantic” and suddenly I felt very sad about him and the world we live in.

And other times I am cold as ice and dry of emotions like a cactus and the road to salvation is long; my feet are blistering and my mind is turning into stone. All I can think of is rain.

I hate flowers or anything too feminine really. I really don’t have the patience to paint flowers. Patience, I hate this word. Painting this artwork made me feel utterly useless.

The eyes, the game is in the eyes. The predator. She will eat you alive.

That half-blinding sense of irritation after waking from a disturbingly realistic nightmare.

Today my insides are burning and I want to choke my anxiety but I can’t so I want to SCREAM but I can’t so I suffocate, my skin is a prison and I burn burn burn.

Like a conch from the depths of your eyes, I rise.

Lightning strikes in between one to two microseconds yet my rage lasts to infinity.

And what am I if not a sweet wraith? A shadow of old disks and dusty tapes; of forgotten vintage romances and all things forsaken.

Mother says my mouth is like a sewer. Well, fuck, what can I do, I love swearing too much

Sometimes I am a volcano ready to explode and a ticking time bomb. A natural disaster, my mind burns burns burns while my brain is a roller coaster of broken promises; to myself mostly.

I dance to exorcise the demons but I also dance to invite them in. I dance to forget about the tears but I also dance inspired by them. I feel the power of my body and I weep. I dance with the devil far too often; He really likes my moves.

I feel men slip through my fingers like dust and sand and ash. I push them like the wind conquers the dunes in the desert. I guess that’s why I’m usually in love with some dark and mysterious fictional character. True, flesh and bone- all in my head

Like a moth to the flame, Always attracted to destruction.

“Oh don’t mind her, she’s just a little blue” “ It’s all in the head- happy thoughts, happy thoughts” The monster of depression and the expressions that grab you and sink you a little deeper inside the well.

My first heartbreak was not like ripping off a band-Aid. No, it was long term agony and bone crushing anxiety, days and nights of big fat whys until I stopped caring about the why and started feeling the goodbye to my bones.

Neither good nor evil, no churches and no saints and certainly not demons. Just you and me and all of us alone. The fire, the water, the tides inside us. No religion, just humans. Unless the religion is art. Just art, only art, always art.

Where do you go when you escape reality? Where is your wasteland? Mine looks like that. Blind and lost.

Maybe I just need to come in terms with the fact that calm is not my cup of tea.