The Man with the Broken Nose

Faced with judgement, truth becomes somewhat subjective. Once was something honest and natural turns synthetic, while beauty wallows in the muck. Take your eyes off for a moment and it all comes crashing down. The back of its head smashed into pieces, renders beauty into ruins; or so they thought

In a moment of clarity, bathed in these broken shards, we found our muse through deconstructive means and laid it out for the world to see

At our feet, plaster dust and graying eyes – terra cotta streaked cement – strands of hair, intertwined – both craggy and matted litter a work space only a wretched vagabond with nowhere else to turn would envy without pity or remorse

The day had come. Plated windows, frozen breath before the fall

Cordwain leather-lined chambers, within they wait

The visage of a weathered man – deep lines and knotted curves. Who sees the beauty in a face like this?

‘The vulgar readily imagine that what they consider ugly in existence is not fit subject for the artist. It is a great error on their part. What is commonly called ugliness in nature can, in art, become full of great beauty. There is nothing ugly in art except that which is without character, that is to say, that which offers no outer or inner truth.’

Cartilage pierces the skin and inspiration bleeds out; a tightened chest exhales and breathes life into beauty