For some reason, I was chosen. Randomly selected for some form of public expression, a voice for the outraged, or bored, or both. I am a canvas for a wandering artist. A kaleidoscope of colors streaked across my concrete body. Faded hues melt into newer, brighter ones. Holes, some small and some large, are scattered, like little pinpricks of time betraying my age. No one knows this road like I do. Each morning I watch black skies turn smoky gray and then the gray loses itself to that ball of light that slips up and down over my city. The day moves in a chaotic frenzy of crowds and noise. People occasionally glance at me, scanning over my long expanse of many voices. Some with disgust, some with intrigue. I watch the sun drift downwards in suspended time and the sky settle into an inky black hue. Each hazy night a new message is etched across me, a new voice from a new mouth. I can’t stop it. Maybe I have something to say. The irony is sharp and almost humorous. I myself have no voice really.
| ARTIST |  |
|
|
Liu Dao 六岛 |
| MEDIA | |
|
|
Oil painting on canvas, teakwood frame |
| EDITION | |
|
|
Unique |
| DATE | |
|
|
Made in island6, Shanghai 2015 |
| SIZE | |
|
|
106(W)×96(H)×5(D) cm |
