, Traffic (SOLD)

Traffic (SOLD)

Size: 15.7 H x 19.7 W x 0.4 in

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Art Description

Painting: Paint

Size: 15.7 H x 19.7 W x 0.4 in

Long mechanic queues in the search of the daily bread…a long queue of ulcers, short-sight problems, gastritis, high blood pressure, stress, sick livers, sleepy red eyes. There is a congestion, a traffic jam of problems spreaded on the asphalt.
We remain locked inside our metal boxes, looking for protection from society.
Communcation is reduced to a rhythmic pression on a silly horn. There is everything in our metal box: from the radio until the backache and the mortgage payments.
At night, when roads become empty, then the Gran Turismo begin and hundreds, maybe thousands pay life tribute on average age of 26 years old. Less points on the driving licence, more scars on the body. And culture gets wrecked like an old mobile. I want to get out but nobody can tell me the way out…
Meanwhile, the mechanical ants multiplies, day after day, puffing death to our lungs and we puff too like a chorus of thousands or millions…
The machine takes over the human being, gradually erasing its own meaning, its own dignity. There is enough to make the “oilman” happy.
The healthy, fanatic culture of incoherence: smoking is strictly forbidden in indoor places, we can get drunk at 11am but if you want to take the bycicle, well have a good inhalation of carbon monoxide. Planet Earth is floating between invisibile poison and a big laugh from careless individuals.
Actually there is a solution. I’ve heard that governments are building houses on Mars , car parks included.
Unsensitive to our children’s future, we sacrify the daily bread for the oil, we make debts because of a polluting toy. Careless , hypnotised society of people that get angry because a car park cannot be found. So why don’t you dig the ground to make more space underground? Please dig the ground! Dig more! Why making those useless gardens? Why people are planting trees?!? What about my car then? Where shall I park it now?
See you people, i am going out tonight, my car is called Motel Fiat for a one night stand: napkins, mirror, radio on, condoms, newspapers, navigation system, otherwise I’ll get lost. I’ll put the pedal block,I’ll lock the wheels, I’ll block the legs, the lungs, I’ll have a blockade to Tehran or Habana. I’ll finally lock the brain. I find myself living an absurd situation.

Keywords: acrylics, painting, printmaking, traffic, urban, Mixed Media, UK, coruzzi

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