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Shipwreck of the Last Hope

Artist: Robert Bandi Sașa

Curator: Diana Dochia

23.05.2014 – 28.06.2014

Opening: 28.05.2014, at 08:00 p.m. in the framework of the White Night of Galleries NAG#8

I held my breath and I cough reversed.

I scrapped against the twisted wall below me, forgetting that I am on the bed with bars. Together, we continue to insult each other. So as to be no more. We insist in death with three sunsets. I’m back at the beginning. Hibernation, you are not welcome.
Take me the ocean. I dare to believe in the unseen. There is no one there, just some rustling of garbage I am just looking in. But they also lie. I turn around and they scratch my back.

I gazed upon the horizon of the terrified frost, eternally, trying to build mountains.
But I had to turn my head on self and my eyes refusal.

I look down and the sky turns to ash. Now, that the sheet turns into ashes, I don’t have a place to sleep. Now, all arrows form the winter inside the coffin melted; I don’t exist anymore.

Abyss, I give you to myself. The wind cuts my face if I turn around from you. Abyss, I am yours. Evil, flying, ripped, agitated. To fall in a staccato way in the bath of time with a floor. Bygone. The house collapsed. Under the walls I confess.
I carved my eyes, now the storm is here. But I replace them with three icicles, to keep the never announced later. Future is always with a floor above, time descending on a spiral fence.

Marginal hope. The last fatal season on a bell having the shape of a horse corpse that I beat until my face leaked out my syphilitic mind.
Living in eternal coldness. Distorted voice, decomposed into poisoned ether.
Undesirable twilight.
I disappointed you, end brother.

What a hallucinatory reasoning. With the always shrunken fists for, towards nothingness.
The failure of the proposed destination, with broken bones, simple- hearted like a donkey.
I hear beggars on my roof clamping, dancing in their knees, brothers came to take me to the corpse.
I feel the infinite void, from a cholera indwelling my ribs.
In solitude I seem more and more larger. Warm shadows. I do not feel them when disappear. But I hear psychosis, are. I tremble under the exuviated hope. Eight layers and yet old, primordial. Savant.

I escape in the ceiling, toward the last hour, to burn. To fall once again. To be ash when I lie that you will catch me. I look under the door frame and I drown reversed with the dirty age of the same truth. The end, the last. The only one. The son of the sun will perish.
I encounter the forests of the retirements with a thousand of canine teeth. The death of thoughts. The floor with catamenic dirt calls me to stay around there. The raven of oblivion, triumph of the lie and of the winter. Devoured sun within the roar of the abyss. The grayest rotten nectar, new unwanted sun, the gray sun. You are not anymore. Eternal night, the hole in the pillow. The corrupt creed, divine. My dear, malign tomorrow.

I drank form the eight bottles of the cheapest and stinking rum. I encased me in the floor, and with the help of elbows, fists were long ago in love with the violent coma that I dedicated to a self-flagellation of the moon in the oven. And, all I want to kill, for you, you, last nostalgia. Arrived in room with four meters, I was the only pilgrim, biting, outraged by tomorrow, my hands, knowing that I will fail to arrive. I was the pilgrim towards the shipwreck buried in the sky. Triumph.

I am not nostalgic, you know, after the brain drain on your wall. They will become nymphs in one day, but I am very hungry and they are those that I must eat. I swallow reversed with one foot behind the other one, the deepest. I am a dead cliff and, still, I am traveling, without you to see me, without you quenching my thirst with waves of Styx. I wonder when I will tear me down?
And I strangle, and I’m delighted, and I strangle, and I love it. And I cry for you, and I hum myself, and I fade myself, and I enchant you. And I bury myself, and I crawl and hide, and I dash myself and I decay, and I leak. I lay on the sidewalk of my last, forgotten, desired, dusk. And, as the child was kidnapped and his root left to age. And, as he has digested temporals, along with him I have them. Salvation is annihilated, once again. Hardly, I creep.

Livid atmosphere! Will you marry me, while I hurt my head with this ax, to create fire in the hollow moon? It feels like yesterday, it feels like today.

Floating to the old sunset, with scurvy in my arms, eyes rolled back on the shore and the infinite skinned smiling face, opposite. Feeling my autistic ambition, hounds half man, half hope, half pheasants, they departed to me, with a scent of hardened mist.

Bandi Sașa Robert, artist

Press release – Shipwreck of the last hope